


Pen Pals

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, OCD Mycroft, Sherlock is a good brother, fountain pens, pens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Mycroft returns home to find his cherished pen missing.This story is now complete.





	1. The Case of the Missing Pen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> After the last story I wrote, which was pretty dark, I needed something fun and light. This occurs mid-s2. Mycroft's interrogation of Jim happens a bit before Baskerville and it veers away from canon after that.

**The Case of the Missing Pen**

Sighing as he closed the door behind him, Mycroft looked at the entryway of his home and quashed the feeling of tiredness. That awful feeling _had_ to be tiredness, not anything more sentimental, like loneliness. The week had been long and horrendous, most likely setting the standard for long and horrendous weeks for years to come.

While he’d finally managed to _convince_ Moriarty to give him the codes, the cost had been steep. It had risen exponentially because Moriarty knew that the government needed those codes that week to prevent a catastrophe. Mycroft had been forced to relate the stories of his and Sherlock’s childhood in excruciating detail.

Moriarty had then simply vanished before they could even verify that the codes were still good. They were, thank goodness, but no one had been able to determine how Moriarty had escaped, and that was frightening in and of itself. Mycroft could have guessed that would happen. The man had too many failsafes that if he couldn’t escape, he’d simply demand to be released.

After hanging up his coat in the closet and setting his umbrella in the wrought iron greenman umbrella stand by the door, Mycroft left his briefcase in his office and headed to the kitchen to set the bag of takeaway on the counter. He knew it was some sort of Kashmiri dish and had vaguely noticed that Geoffrey, his driver, had been going in the direction of the favorite Indian restaurant of his personal guard, Ben. Mycroft had been too busy finishing his last case of the week to care. Plus, he knew it pleased Ben to select not just the restaurant but also his and Geoffrey’s meals.

Mycroft set the appropriate amount of water, down to the milliliter, to boil, weighed 5.6 grams of chocolate chai tea, and put it in his infuser. He then shaved 1.3 grams of chocolate and added it to the infuser as well before retrieving a bottle of whisky. 

It was Friday and there were rituals to be completed. Meal secured. Coat and umbrella in their appropriate resting place. Tea started. It was time to write mummy a card while enjoying his celebratory end-of-the-week glass of scotch. His choice was always Balvenie 12 Year Old Doublewood because it had notes of chocolate and brioche.

He poured the scotch into his Glencairn whisky glass, added a teaspoon of room temperature water, and then sat down in his office. After a few sips of the scotch, he opened his briefcase and retrieved the paper bag containing the card that Anthea had purchased. He’d insisted that she get something not overly feminine or flowery, due to his mood that particular week. Skulls. And frogs. Skulls and frogs in a repeating pattern on the card. What had Anthea been thinking? Mycroft sighed; at least it wasn’t flowers. 

Hearing the kettle whistle, Mycroft put the card on his desk, took another sip of his scotch, and went back to the kitchen. Chocolate chai tea could fix anything, even on that particular day. 

He returned to his office with tea and mentally planned his next hour so that his tasks would be accomplished in the appropriate order. Writing the card interspersed with scotch followed by scheduling his weekend workload interspersed with tea; dinner with either a red or rosé wine, and then either making chocolate hazelnut truffles or watching a documentary on the migratory patterns of birds. He did so love ornithology.

Mycroft opened the top left drawer of his desk and reached for his favorite pen. Many years prior, Mummy had gifted him with a personalized Montblanc Meisterstück fountain pen for his efforts in saving Sherlock from near death of a horrific overdose and subsequently getting him into rehab. Mycroft cherished the pen and wrote Mummy a note with it every Friday. 

His fingers touched the bottom of the shallow drawer just as his mind registered that the pen case was not where it should be. Instead there were two biscuit crumbs. “My pen,” Mycroft gasped as he felt time slow and his focus narrow. The pen was not where it should be. The pen was not where he’d left it. And there were _crumbs_ in the drawer.

Blinking a few times to clear his head, Mycroft leaned forward and examined the drawer. Nothing else was out of place. He reached into his pocket to get his keyring and then unlocked the bottom right drawer that held the supply of emergency biscuits. Sure enough, one chocolate & macadamia biscuit was missing.

Exhaling slowly to rein in his displeasure, Mycroft brought one hand to his forehead for a moment. Before taking drastic action, he pulled out his phone and checked the security system in case there was a legitimate reason for his pen and one biscuit to be missing. Nothing. He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was only one person who could break into his house without leaving a trace. Sherlock. Forcing himself not to immediately call and lecture his brother, he sent a gently worded text.

Brother mine, I need my pen returned. -MH

After a few minutes, Mycroft decided that Mummy would understand especially after he ratted out the little thieving bastard to her and wrote the card using a different pen. Once he affixed a stamp to the envelope, he finished his scotch and sent another text.

Immediately. It’s rather a bit important. -MH

Mycroft then drank some of his tea and decided that he needed to distract himself or he would work himself up into an anxiety attack. Much as he despised eating in front of the television, he reheated his dinner and ate it while watching the documentary. Still no reply from his little brother. Halfway through he decided it was time to use stronger language. Sherlock could be obtuse about some things that Mycroft considered important.

I insist. -MH

Once he finished the documentary and cleaned up after dinner, he decided to make the truffles. While he couldn’t cook to save his life, Mycroft considered himself an excellent amateur chocolatier and even his peers had noted how exquisite his creations were. Sherlock never commented but ate them whenever Mycroft left them out. He considered that praise of the highest order. Eyeing his office and knowing that the pen was missing, Mycroft realized that he might even need to eat the entire batch that evening unless the crisis were resolved in short order. 

Several hours later the truffles were completed but Mycroft was too stressed and tired to eat more than one. He did however thoroughly clean and disinfect the kitchen to further distract himself. It hadn’t needed cleaning but the ritual of cleaning usually made him feel better. It was close to midnight when he sent Sherlock another text.

Don’t make me call Mummy. -MH

The reply was almost instantaneous.

What is all this about and no, I’m not going to sort out your nonsense. -SH

Mycroft almost threw the phone to the floor out of frustration. It was hours after he should have gone to bed. He hadn’t even written out his schedule for the weekend, and his pen was still missing.

Did you bother to read my texts. -MH

^? -MH

Yes. -SH

Glaring at his phone, Mycroft poured himself another glass of scotch and downed half before replying.

I need you to return my pen immediately. -MH

John and I arrived in Dartmoor yesterday. -SH

Mycroft stared at the text for a moment then checked the trackers he had on both Sherlock and John. The location history verified what Sherlock was saying and neither had been near his home that entire week.

I may need your security access. -SH

“As if I can stop you from using it,” Mycroft grumbled and then texted it as well. 

As if I can stop you from using it. -MH

Mycroft drank the other half of his drink while vowing not to think about the security implications. He had his umbrella by the door and he could tuck one of his Ottoman Empire Flintlock pistols under his pillow.

Stop drinking. -SH

I’ll help you find it when I get back. -SH

Mycroft mentally apologized to Sherlock for immediately blaming him and then, despite his worry over the pen’s location, went to bed.


	2. The Case of the Confused Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft receives some information about what happened to his pen and consults with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety can be very debilitating and Mycroft isn't doing well at all.   
> Taking any sort of medication with alcohol is not recommended in any way, shape, or form.

**The Case of the Confused Mycroft**

The following morning Mycroft awoke with a terrible headache that felt like the beginnings of a migraine. After slipping into his bathrobe and slippers, he padded to his office and, hoping it had all been a horrible nightmare, opened the top left drawer of his desk. No pen. Also noticing that he’d forgotten to clean up the biscuit crumbs, he mentally chastised himself and left the drawer open so that he’d remember to do it immediately after breakfast.

While showering, Mycroft felt overwhelmed and struggled to keep his emotions in check. There had been a few times in his life, usually involving Sherlock, when he’d almost cried. Almost. It felt like one of those times. 

As he was shaving, he heard his phone chime and immediately hoped that it was Sherlock saying that he’d be coming home early to assist with the matter. Trying not to get his hopes up because Sherlock _never_ left a case, Mycroft forced himself not to race to the phone to check the message.

After getting dressed properly and picking up in the bathroom, he started the kettle, folded his pyjamas, made the bed, brewed some English Breakfast tea, made sure that everything was in order in both the bedroom and the bathroom again, and finally microwaved a breakfast sandwich. His plan was to enjoy breakfast while making sure that there had been no catastrophes at work and then look at the text. 

Mycroft was able to complete most of his plan up until his phone chimed just as he was finishing the last few bites. Another text message. Curse whomever was bothering him during this crisis.

Sighing, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Unknown number. The first message was a photo of his Montblanc pen next to what appeared to be a custom designed Montegrappa rollerball alongside a crystal glass of champagne and a bowl of strawberries on an airline tray that had a tablecloth and sterling silverware. 

Mycroft stared at the photo and his jaw opened slightly. That was certainly his pen. If the scene was real then his pen was either in first class or on a private jet, however it was most likely staged.

The second text was a simple message. Mycroft felt his heart tighten.

I’m eloping with this gorgeous piece. Bye! -the pen

Not only had his pen been stolen but the thief somehow had his cell phone number and was tormenting him. Mycroft took a deep breath and began analyzing the information that he had and, as he did so, the enormity of the situation dawned on him.

Someone had broken into his home and it had gone undetected by his security system. A cherished item of his had been stolen, and even more frightening was the fact that someone had known about the pen’s value to him. The person had also discovered his private personal cell phone number. All this on top of the potential for bugs being planted in his house or his personal computer having been hacked. This was an enormous security breach with an unknown number of potential suspects.

Silently reprimanding himself for not immediately recognizing the urgency of the situation beyond the missing pen, he called Anthea and, without bringing up the pen, explained that he’d had a serious security breach. The thought of having people in his home disgusted him but he knew that it would be necessary. 

After reassuring Anthea that he was safe and still not mentioning the pen, Mycroft authorized the nightmarish cascade of actions that were required by protocol whenever something of this nature occurred. As soon as the call was over, Mycroft ate a truffle. Followed by another. Then he went back to his phone and stared at the picture of his pen on an airplane tray table until his phone chimed again.

Did you find it? -SH

Sherlock’s concern warmed his heart and he took a deep breath.

No, and I have just had confirmation that it has been pennapped. -MH

I see. -SH

No, you don’t. -MH

What do they want in return? -SH

Nothing has been demanded yet. -MH

The pen texted me and stated that it was eloping with a Montegrappa. -MH

When Sherlock did not reply, Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea and pondered his options. Even though he was feeling distraught at the loss of the pen, engaging with the kidnapper was a phenomenally bad idea. It took Sherlock twenty minutes to reply.

It’s not a pennapping if they don’t demand ransom. -SH

How much did you have last night? -SH

Mycroft frowned.

I am not the one with addiction problems. -MH

None until after I realized it was missing. -MH

Sorry. -MH

Do you want me to leave the case here and come there? -SH

I know how you are about your things. Especially *that* pen. -SH

Mycroft pursed his lips. The fact that Sherlock had even suggested coming back was extraordinary. His brother seemed to take casework seriously and the work took a priority over drug abuse. Mycroft would never let any of his own issues get in the way of that.

No. I will manage if it becomes a security issue. -MH

And speaking of security...Do NOT abuse my security clearance. -MH

You’re not supposed to be there. -MH

I won’t. Thanks. :D -SH

Mycroft stared at that last message and decided that he was not reassured in the slightest. Sherlock never thanked him for anything unless shenanigans were involved. Perhaps feigning distress and luring his brother back to London was not as bad an idea as he first thought.

~~

Later that day Mycroft received another photo of the two pens, lying next to each other, still supposedly on the airplane, on a tablecloth decorated with rose petals and chocolate hearts. Mycroft frowned. And then another text appeared.

Look! Isn’t the Montegrappa sleek? One of us needed a Valentine! -the pen

Exhaling slowly, Mycroft decided that it was late enough in the day that he could have a drink. Why was he being sent these pictures? What was the point of taunting him in that manner? Worse thoughts intruded. What would he be shown next? The pen’s demise? Feeling helpless and disliking it immensely, he went to the kitchen, poured himself a scotch, and texted Sherlock.

May I send yo some pennapping evidence? -MH

^you -MH

What happened? -SH

Pictures and taunts. -MH

Sure. -SH

Mycroft took a sip of his scotch and did so.

Dinner when I get back? -SH

Certainly. I’ll even buy. -MH

Generous. It won’t take me too long to solve this case. -SH

Mummy doesn’t think you eat enough. -MH

Moriarty has your pen. -SH

You haven’t looked at all the evidence yet. -MH

Obvious. *You* haven’t observed the evidence. -SH

The distinction is clear and you wouldn’t need me if you had. -SH

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took another sip.

This is a rather stressful situation. -MH

Your anxiety is making you dumb. -SH

Take your med and have a nice long walk with Mrs. Arrington’s corgi. -SH

You’ll be buying dinner. -MH

I’ll stop by as soon as I get back. -SH

Downing about half of what was left of his drink, Mycroft decided that while Sherlock was an absolute brat, in this case he was correct. Mycroft had been so wrought up with anxiety over the loss of his pen that he hadn’t been thinking clearly, hadn’t followed proper security protocols, and he’d missed the obvious answer. _Moriarty_. What an absolute disaster. He took the medication with the other half of his drink followed by a cup of tea while changing into his walking clothes. A stroll with his neighbor’s corgi would be delightful.


	3. The Case of Globe Trotting Pen, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft receives more communication from his missing pen.

**The Case of Globe Trotting Pen, Part 1**

( _one week later_ )  
Mycroft waved as he watched the government vehicle pull away to bring Sherlock to Baker Street. Dinner had been awkward and stressful due to his increased security but it still had been time spent with Sherlock and that had made it worthwhile. There had been no further communication since the first few texts from Moriarty so his brother hadn’t had any new data to analyze. 

Sherlock was pleased that Mycroft’s work and home security systems had all been tightened and that he’d been assigned an additional guard. Sylvia was former RAC despite the ban on women serving in combat. She was also the supposed best at dad jokes. Sherlock hadn’t been impressed but Mycroft found her puns amusing in a rather horrifying sort of way. 

That morning Sherlock had just returned _in one piece_ from Dartmoor. That was always cause for celebration. They had eaten at Berenjak in Soho because Sherlock had been craving kebabs. While Mycroft despised messy food, he wanted to humor his brother and the staff was always kind enough to de-skewer them for him while he was wearing his best suit.

They had tried to discuss the case but without the input of new evidence and the presence of added security in the vicinity, the conversation had been somewhat stifled and quickly degenerated into Mycroft fretting and Sherlock dismissing his concerns. His pen was _still missing_ and Sherlock found it mundane despite professing to understand Mycroft’s concern.

To make matters worse, Mummy had called him in the middle of the week to see if anything was amiss. Mycroft had explained to Sherlock that she’d noticed the different ink and he’d given her a bit of a fictitious explanation and he needed to keep the story straight. He’d told her that he’d lent the pen to Dr. Watson so that the man could write proper letters to potential lady loves. Sherlock had not been amused but Mycroft insisted that the two of them owed him that much after their adventures in Dartmoor.

As soon as the car was out of sight, Mycroft closed and locked the door. At least it was Friday night and he didn’t have too much work to finish over the weekend: less than ten cases plus the monthly review of overseas assignments. That meant that he could have an extra scotch or two, forget that his pen wasn’t in the drawer where it belonged, and make hazelnut truffles before watching a documentary on snowy owls.

~~

Mycroft was halfway through his second scotch and was about to retrieve the truffle centers from the refrigerator when his phone chimed with Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights. He froze. That was the ringtone he’d added for the dastardly pen thief. He quickly but deliberately set the bowl of chopped hazelnuts down, washed his hands, and then looked at his phone. 

There was a picture of the pen in the most absurd setting he’d ever seen. Mycroft’s heart started pounding. His pen was still missing. It was lying on a table that was covered in a plastic white and blue gingham tablecloth next to a simple white plate with the most unremarkable piece of cake on it. Yellow cake with some sort of egg custard in between and chocolate ganache icing on top. Mycroft forced himself to breathe slowly and regularly until his heartbeat slowed down. Another text came through.

Look! #newfavoritedessert! -the pen

Mycroft stared at the picture for a few minutes, then set the phone down, and slowly finished his glass of scotch. He didn’t want to think of what Moriarty was doing with his beloved pen or _why_. Even though he’d sworn not to engage with the man, he typed a reply.

Please cease this foolishness and return my pen. -MH

Boston Cream Pie!! -the pen

Closing his eyes, Mycroft focused on clearing his thoughts. Moriarty must be trying to serve up a subtle sort of revenge that was striking him to the core. The pen symbolized his emotions for Sherlock, the only person he could truly allow himself to love and care for, and Moriarty was vandalizing that. He texted his brother.

I have received more texts from *that* man. -MH

Sherlock replied immediately.

Can’t be worse than John’s bad telly or the lack of interesting cases. -SH

Send them. -SH

“It is much worse,” Mycroft grumbled under his breath but forwarded them and then poured himself another scotch before resuming work on the truffles. Working soothed him and soon he found himself relaxed enough that he could organize his schedule for the weekend while dipping and rolling little balls of chocolate. Just as he finished and was savoring his second little masterpiece, Sherlock replied.

Could be the Omni Parker House but most likely too obvious even for Moriarty. -SH

Mycroft frowned. He’d stayed at that hotel for a convention several years prior. It would never allow that sort of tablecloth anywhere near its premises.

Most likely the CT coastline or PA Dutch environs. -SH

Mycroft started mentally analyzing the geography of the New England states, the Tri-State area, and Pennsylvania. Boston was certainly the obvious answer but he could also see Moriarty pinpointing the _exact_ location thinking that _they_ would find it too obvious. Sherlock’s next text jarred him from his thoughts.

What kind of truffles are you making? -SH

The text made him smile.

What truffles? -MH

You always make truffles on Friday nights. -SH

Did you eat them all?! -SH

Chocolate hazelnut. -MH

I roasted the hazelnuts. Better flavor. -MH

I’ll save you one. -MH

Still so generous. -SH

Sod off. I paid for dinner. -MH

I’ll stop by tomorrow night. Maybe you’ll have an interesting case for me. -SH

Good night. -MH

*~*~*

That following afternoon, Mycroft received a postcard. From Niagara Falls. From the pen. He almost started hyperventilating. “Dear Mycroft, Niagara Falls are beautiful. We took a day trip to the Canadian side where the views are more stunning and rode the Maid of the Mist. Got a wee bit wet but as you can see, I’m still functional! Ciao!! -the pen”

The postcard was postmarked from Albany, New York. After sitting down with a fresh cup of tea and stirring it incessantly until he felt calmer, Mycroft reread it several times and then decided that the best course of action was to reply by text in the manner that he had previously.

Please stop this foolishness and return my pen. -MH

A few moments later he received a photo of the two pens next to a plate containing some sort of Eggs Benedict, three rashers of streaky bacon, some potatoes, and a rather immense blueberry muffin. It looked delicious and Mycroft momentarily wondered if he could commission someone to make that for him before squashing that thought. Another text arrived.

I absolutely ❤ lobster Benedicts and anything blueberry! -the pen

Burying his face in his hands for a moment, Mycroft took several deep breaths and then texted Sherlock.

My pen might be in the United States perhaps Maine. -MH

I got a postcard from there. -MH

Better than a funeral notice. -SH

Mycroft gasped as thoughts of his pen, tortured and shattered in gruesome ways, filled his mind. After he added some scotch to his tea, he slowly finished it and ate a few truffles before giving up on the idea of getting any more work done. 

~~

Four days later a postcard from Portland, Maine arrived. “Maine has gorgeous lighthouses! I’m trying my hand at graffiti. -the pen” Images of obscenities scrawled on pristine white brick walls filled Mycroft’s mind and he felt himself start to hyperventilate again. After calming himself down with entirely too many cinnamon cappuccino truffles, Mycroft sent a text.

Do try to stay out of serious criminal mischief with MY pen. Or simply return it. -MH

~~

A week later he received not one but three postcards from Massachusetts. It was starting to get easier to receive them. Not the texts. The first one showed a map of the Freedom Trail. “Nothing like a Tea Party to celebrate freedom from the British Government. Silly Redcoats. -the pen.” Mycroft poured himself a scotch.

The second one showed a stadium. “Almost caught a foul ball! Those things are dangerous. I could have been shattered and lost ink! Take me out to the ballgame!! -the pen.” Not this postcard. Mycroft forced himself to focus on what type of truffle he’d make next and not his pen being shattered by a baseball with a velocity of over 90 mph. He then paused a moment to imagine mailing Moriarty to Siberia in a very small and uncomfortable box and then drank half of the scotch. 

The third was from the town of Salem and the writing was tiny. What a bother. Mycroft fretted about the nib. “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil and bake; eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog, adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, for a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble. -the pen.” 

Mycroft had to force himself not to smirk because it really was sort of clever and perhaps cute. He did like Shakespeare. After taking a small sip, he sent a text.

Hell hath no fury like my empty pen drawer. -MH

Please stop this foolishness and return my pen. -MH

He received no reply.

~~

Three days later, on Saturday, he received one postcard of the Statue of Liberty. “People have only as much liberty as they have the intelligence to want and the courage to take. -the pen.” Mycroft was impressed but not overly surprised. Most people hadn’t heard of Emma Goldman but he could see her appeal to someone like Moriarty. Certainly not to me, he insisted while typing only his standard reply and not something about goldfish and annoying people.

Please stop this foolishness and return my pen. -MH

Monday’s postcard was from the Pentagon. “Thinking of you! -the pen” The rest of the space was filled with hearts. Mycroft texted the same message once more.

Please stop this foolishness and return my pen. -MH

This time he got a reply. Two of them. Followed by a third. The first was a photo of the two pens surrounded by flowers. The next two were text messages.

Fornicating in a field of flowers at White Flower Farm. -the pen

I hope the Montegrappa is on birth control. -the pen

Mycroft stared at the texts in horror and then laid down on his couch for over an hour. Something had to be done. The situation was becoming ridiculous. The most likely scenario was that Moriarty was truly in the United States even though he supposed that if anyone was able to stage this from London, it was that horrid man. 

He stormed into his office and started working on a database of all potential and confirmed locations along with the dates and contents of all texts and postcards. There had to be a clue somewhere in the morass and Mycroft was more than capable of finding it.


	4. The Case of the Well-Meaning Mummy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy visits Mycroft and tries to help.

**The Case of the Well-Meaning Mummy**

Tuesday was a truly evil and most horrid day. His pen was still missing and then Lady Smallwood took the definition of annoying to new and astronomical heights. She kept mentioning going out for drinks later that day. After the third mention before nine o’clock in the morning, Mycroft snapped, “Elizabeth, I plan on staying hydrated most of the day therefore it really doesn’t align with my goals for the evening.”

All during that week Anthea had been working on some fairly technical data analysis for a case and while Mycroft didn’t mind assisting her in general, her barrage of questions before midmorning tea was wearing him down. 

Just before lunch, Sherlock was spotted heading towards one of his old drug dens and Mycroft’s anxiety skyrocketed. It had taken five phone calls to get Sherlock to answer with a curt, “I’m on a case. Stop assuming the worst, Mycroft.” Mycroft ate an entire package of Mr. Kipling Viennese Whirls just to settle his anxiety and quell the images of Sherlock in an ambulance after an overdose.

Just after lunch, Mycroft was eyeing his schedule and contemplating leaving work on time when Sylvia and Ben got into a rather loud argument over where they would get takeaway. Sylvia wanted Chinese again while Ben was craving Italian that evening. After they argued on and off for three hours, they turned to Mycroft for a decision. Mycroft and his headache opted for pub burgers simply to spite the both of them.

As they were preparing to leave for the day, Mummy called to announce that she would be visiting for tea the following afternoon and no amount of dissembling would dissuade her. Mummy dropped by for tea frequently but she’d mentioned that she was worried _about him_ , instead of Sherlock, and he suspected that his brother must have had words with her. Curse him. Mycroft stared dumbly at his phone after he hung up and then proceeded to take the following day off. There was only so much a sane human being could put up with in one day and he would need to make sure that the house was clean. 

On returning home he found a package from the United States, specifically the Charleston Tea Plantation in South Carolina. It seemed sketchy at best since he hadn’t placed an order and didn’t even know of their existence. Mycroft immediately called the afterhours line at the office and had them send over a team. Ben, Sylvia, and Geoffrey stayed with him and, despite being annoyed with them for the earlier disturbance, he enjoyed sharing takeaway with them and listening to them discuss the following day’s meal selection. Korean would be the default if a consensus couldn’t be reached.

After several hours the box was cleared and returned to him and then Ben, Sylvia, and Geoffrey finally went home. Mycroft considered his options and decided not to have a scotch in case MI5 had somehow missed the explosives hidden within and he’d need his reflexes to save his life. He supposed that the thought of MI5 missing explosives was a bit ridiculous but ' _better safe than sorry_ ' as he was fond of repeating to Sherlock.

The box contained no surprises. There were some boxes of tea and a note that smelled of bergamot. The scented stationery was intriguing but Mycroft felt his pulse increasing. That horrid man kept _using_ his pen. “He’s going to ruin the nib,” Mycroft growled softly. “Writing left handed on top of everything else.”

The note read: “It’s tea time! Even though it’s American, this tea is quite tasty. I love, love, love the Charleston Breakfast but the Montegrappa is utterly passionate about the Plantation Peach. Enjoy! -the pen.” There were seven boxes of pyramid sachets in various flavors and one box of American Classic tea bags. 

Mycroft pursed his lips and quickly calculated that he could make 132 mugs of tea. He tried to discern if there were any significance to that number or the fact that he had eighty four sachets and forty eight teabags. It was intriguing but probably not, unless Moriarty knew that he would fret over it. Feeling a flash of temper, he packed up the box the way it had arrived and flung it across the living room before typing a text.

Please stop this foolishness and return my pen. -MH

Almost immediately he received a picture of the two pens nestled in a tea bush.

Making out in the bushes. -the pen

A second picture arrived. It was the two pens leaning against a cup of tea. Feeling himself becoming angrier, Mycroft stared at the photo and then calmly but deliberately set the phone down and poured himself a scotch before starting his bedtime routine. Perhaps tomorrow he would alphabetize his shoes. That was clearly needed.

*~*~*

The following morning, Mycroft ordered tea sandwiches along with mini scones and pastries from one of his favorite cafes and then cleaned the entire house. That was soothing. For lunch he finished that weekend’s cinnamon cappuccino truffles and contemplated what to do with the American teas. Binning them seemed appropriate if a waste of probably bad tea. Instead he set it aside to go to a food pantry.

There were no postcards that afternoon and Mycroft felt a small amount of relief. If only Mummy would not mention the pen.

~~

Mummy didn’t mince words when she arrived. “What did Sherlock mean when he said your pen was missing and that it was causing you fits?”

Smiling his blandest smile while mentally banishing his brother to Timbuktu, Mycroft replied, “Sherlock lies; I don’t have fits. Why don’t we borrow Mrs. Arrington’s corgi and have a stroll?”

“Why don’t we have some tea first?” Mummy countered. “And then we’ll see about a stroll. Her puppy really is adorable.” Mycroft sighed as he hung up her coat and then assisted with her chair at the dining room table. The tea sandwiches and pastries were all perfectly arranged by size in concentric circles. 

Mycroft poured water from the kettle into the teapot and brought it to the table. “Sherlock called you,” he said as he sat down.

“He did inform me of the situation but only after I asked,” Mummy said while making plates for both of them. “Don’t take your frustration out on him. I insisted once I realized that there was a problem. He’s worried although he reassured me in regards to your physical safety. He said the computer and security people did a complete overhaul here.”

“They did and it was an appalling nuisance to have all those people in my house.”

“Now, if you could please explain…”

“Simply put, the pen was stolen by someone both Sherlock and I had been dealing with and he has probably scampered off to the United States with it.”

“I see,” Mummy said. “The egg mayonnaise with cress sandwiches are delightful.”

Mycroft refrained from snapping that _no_ , no one else seemed to understand his distress over the loss of the pen. Instead he nodded and indicated another type of sandwich. “The coronation chicken is one of my favorites. They put a little extra mango in them just for me.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me instead of inventing tales about poor Dr. Watson? He has so many troubles chasing after Sherlock.”

“Well, he does need help with his lady loves and writing a proper letter couldn’t hurt.”

“Not the point.”

Mycroft paused, finished his tea sandwich, ate a pastry, and then said, “I was, well, still am upset over the situation because the pen means a lot to me and I was worried that, since you gave it to me, you’d be upset as well.”

“I’m upset that you’re upset,” Mummy answered. “Is there any chance that it will be returned?” Mycroft shook his head. “Can you hunt him down like you do all the other people you deal with?”

“Not easily,” Mycroft said. “The man is brilliant and he excels at unpredictability and chaos. Even though I’m convinced that he actually is in the States at the moment, I have zero verified sightings. 

“What does he want?”

“He’s evil,” Mycroft grumbled. “He sends me taunting postcards and texts from the places he’s ostensibly been along with pictures of my pen fornicating with his pen.” Mummy’s eyes widened with shock and Mycroft realized how his words sounded to someone who was clearly not as perturbed as he was. “Never mind.”

“How… how exactly are the pens…?”

“He puts them next to each other.”

Mummy was silent for a moment as she finished a pastry. “These are delightful.” Mycroft nodded and started eating one as well. “They haven’t swapped parts, have they?” she asked.

Mycroft gasped. That thought was abhorrent. “No, that would… not work,” he managed to mumble while images of Moriarty disassembling his pen came to mind.

“I see.”

Glaring at her, Mycroft said crisply, “The pen seems fine except that he’s probably not caring for it properly, using cheap inks, and simply using it, which can damage the nib.”

“Has he told you what he wants?”

“No, although I suspect he merely wants to torment me.”

“And he’s been sending you postcards, notes, et cetera.”

“He’s taking a tour of the United States it seems and he sends me things from wherever he’s been.”

“In any other situation that would be considered courting someone or simply sweet,” Mummy noted. “My son sends me a card every week no matter what is happening in his life and it’s a joy to receive each and every one.”

“This is horrifically different,” Mycroft growled.

“I know. It’s your cherished pen and it’s been stolen,” Mummy said. Mycroft smiled. Perhaps Mummy did understand. She handed him one of the bags she’d brought. “This will solve the problem. Open it and then we’ll go for a walk.

Mycroft pulled out a gift-wrapped box from the bag and then stared aghast at the silver wrapping paper and ribbon. They had Montblanc written stylishly on them. Time slowed as he realized what Mummy had done to solve the problem and it was just as horrible as his pen being stolen. Mummy had obviously gotten him a _replacement pen_. “Go on, open it,” she encouraged. “You’ll love it.”

Mycroft stared at the box with growing horror. It was the same size box as his pen. Somehow he forced himself not to hurl it across the room. Nothing could replace his pen. His fingers so very carefully undid the ribbon and took the tape off of the paper before pulling the wrapping off the box and folding it neatly. “I wanted to get you one that will cheer you up and brighten your life,” Mummy said merrily. “That way you can forget all this nonsense.”

Feeling his stomach clench, Mycroft took a sip of tea and focused on his breathing while opening the box. “You’ll love it, trust me,” Mummy added. Mycroft opened the lid and his eyes fell on the most atrociously gaudy pen he’d ever seen.

“It’s their Hommage à Scipione Borghese Limited Edition pen,” Mummy explained. Her voice stopped being clear as Mycroft imagined holding this pen, writing with _this pen_ instead of his beloved pen. Mummy was saying something about Roman interior decoration and baroque style, antique dark-green marble, the Ottoman empire, Villa Borghese, wealth, nobility, his coat of arms, and his Cardinal hat.

Dismay filled Mycroft’s heart. “Thank you, Mummy,” he blurted out and quickly closed the lid of the box so he wouldn’t have to look at that monstrosity of a pen.

“I wanted to get you some ink as well but I know how particular you are about such things...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link to the new pen.](https://www.montblanc.com/en-us/collection/writing-instruments/patron-of-art/115985-fountain-pen-patron-of-art-homage-to-scipione-borghese-li.html)


	5. The Case of the Globetrotting Pen, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft follows the pen's travels across the country.

**The Case of the Globetrotting Pen, Part 2**

The following morning Mycroft incorporated an additional step into his morning routine: checking that the interloper pen was tucked away in the furthest corner of his desk, someplace where he wouldn’t accidentally see it while doing something important. He then noted that he was almost out of frozen breakfast sandwiches and quickly put _order groceries_ on his afternoon agenda.

His day, however, went surprisingly well. Anthea finished an impressive amount of analysis. Ben, Sylvia, and Geoffrey couldn’t find anything to argue over no matter how hard they tried. And Sherlock seemed functional; he even asked Mycroft for an MI5 case to work on since he had some free time. Astounding. 

That afternoon the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds contacted him to chair a committee to establish a recount of the pairs of red kites in Aberdeen. Mycroft had been part of the original project to reestablish the birds in the area and he was pleased to take part in the next phase. They were such lovely birds.

When he returned home that afternoon, there were no packages, postcards, or other communications from the pennapper. Splendid. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief and proceeded to enjoy his evening as much as he could even though the pen was still missing. He did expect his phone to chime at some point with taunting messages but no texts arrived. Mycroft almost slept peacefully.

Friday went equally well with the minor exception of Ben and Geoffrey’s discussion as to which nightclub they would visit after work becoming almost violent. As they were both former SAS, the likelihood of blood getting on the carpet was high so Mycroft discouraged the argument by threatening them with having Sylvia make the decision. Problem solved. 

There was nothing in the mail again, and while Mycroft wondered what mischief Moriarty was getting into, he was getting better at forcing the issue away from his mind and keeping his anxiety in check. He made Irish Cream white chocolate truffles and then settled in his office to write the proposal for the Aberdeen red kite recount.

Saturday afternoon he received a postcard showing the Gateway Arch. There was no message but the back had a drawing of delicate white blossoms. Clearly done with his pen. Mycroft felt his pulse increase and chest tighten. He closed his eyes. “He’s going to destroy the nib,” he whispered.

It took nearly ten minutes for Mycroft to calm himself down and then he marched into his office to log all the pertinent information into his spreadsheet. Still no obvious pattern. He did note that the drawing was very well done and it was an accurate rendition of white hawthorn blossoms, the state flower of Missouri. Interesting.

He spent a few minutes scrutinizing the artwork. Moriarty had some skill with ink. Using very few lines, not only had the man drawn each flower well but he’d managed to convey a sense of beauty, tranquility, purity, and, perhaps, hope. Mycroft pursed his lips and drew his finger over the drawing while wondering if he was seeing natural talent, practiced art, or some combination of the two. He put the postcard away and decided that the best course of action was not to think about it or respond.

Sunday morning, he awoke to a few texts. The first was a picture of the two pens next to a cup of coffee and a plate of beignets from Café du Monde.

Bonjour! J'adore les beignets! -the pen

Versez un peu de sucre sur moi… -the pen

The next one was a picture of the two pens loosely wrapped in green, gold, and purple Mardi Gras beads. Mycroft had to admit that it was a colorful picture. Perhaps a bit garish but entertaining. He was considering replying with something other than his usual response when he saw the last picture and gasped audibly. 

It was the profile of a naked back, presumably Moriarty’s, with just enough of the curve of his buttocks showing to be sensual. Mardi Gras beads were draped over him and the two pens were reposing between his cheeks. Mycroft flung the phone away. Lying back down, he fought to get his pulse and breathing under control while keeping the lewd image out of his mind. That was _his pen_ near, no, _on the man’s arse_!

This time it took him nearly half an hour to calm himself and start his weekend morning routine. Instead of a frozen breakfast sandwich, he treated himself to take away from another of his favorite cafes. After he placed his order for omelette aux chanterelles avec herbes et fromage, croissants, bacon, and grilled vegetables he replied to the texts.

Mr. Moriarty, I demand that you return my pen immediately. -MH

If you do not do so, I will destroy every contact in your network. -MH

And I will make what happened to you during interrogation seem like a stroll in the park. -MH

After sending the last text, he ate all the truffles he’d made the night before and promptly felt sick to his stomach. Curse Moriarty. He put his cellphone in the freezer so that he wouldn’t hear it, returned to the bedroom, and laid down.

~~  
Mycroft must have fallen asleep because a knock on his bedroom door frame and Sherlock’s baritone startled him awake. “Mycroft! I’ve got your takeaway.”

Mycroft groaned. His stomach felt a little better but the image of Moriarty and his pen was burned into his mind and he was in no mood to deal with Sherlock. “What do you want?” he mumbled into his pillow.

“I came to see how you were doing,” Sherlock replied and then rolled his eyes. “And to retrieve your breakfast from outside before the neighbor’s annoying little canine ate it. Plus, perhaps, to see if you have any _interesting_ cases. The last one was bollocks. It took me less than two hours.”

Mycroft stared at his brother. “Why was my breakfast outside?” he asked and then remembered ordering takeaway just before lying down. “Ah, never mind. Thank you. That atrocious man sent me some texts and I lost my temper.”

Sherlock nodded. “Show me? Once we get some food in you. You tend not to do well if you don’t get your meals timely.”

“I could stand to lose a few pounds,” Mycroft countered. Sherlock arched an eyebrow but Mycroft waved him toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you see if tea needs to be made or something and I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Sherlock nodded and left. Mycroft looked for his phone and remembered that he'd put it in the freezer.

After changing suits and leaving the one he’d fallen asleep in to hang in the bathroom, Mycroft went to the kitchen and found that Sherlock had made tea, reheated the food, and set the table in the kitchen nook. Bless his sweet, if often, annoying brother. “I’m glad you ordered enough food for two,” Sherlock said flatly.

“I was hungry before I received Moriarty’s texts and then I was upset,” Mycroft said. “I need a goodly amount to fortify myself against what the rest of the day has in store for me.”

Sherlock smirked. “All it took was a text? I wish I had known years ago.”

Mycroft glared at him but opted to ignore the last bit. “We can split the omelette but I cut, since _you_ can’t seem to divide things in proper halves or get your cuts straight.” Sherlock laughed. “It’s true,” Mycroft continued. “You usually can’t be arsed to make it straight and clean or, if you do, it’s only so that you can get the bigger piece.”

“Guilty as charged,” Sherlock said. “Show me these texts while you cut. _Properly_.” Mycroft retrieved his cell from the freezer, nonchalantly handed it to his brother, and then set about dividing the food. “What, exactly, is wrong here?” Sherlock asked after warming the phone.

“Did you look at the picture?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “He has a lovely backside.”

“Sherlock!”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice that.”

“Sod off.”

“Is that all that got you bothered?”

“My pen,” Mycroft growled and set a plate in front of Sherlock. Each had received 212g of the omelette, a chocolate croissant, a vanilla crème croissant, an almond crusted croissant, 40.5g of bacon, and 73.8g of roasted vegetables.

“Your pen is still missing and I realize that you’re upset,” Sherlock stated. “But getting yourself worked up is doing absolutely nothing to help. Neither is all this sugar but excellent choice on the omelette.”

“Not helping.”

Sherlock took a bite of the chocolate croissant and nodded with approval. “He’s not giving you much to work with,” he said. “Your best bet is to bide your time, not antagonize him like you just did. Play along if you can manage because that may get him to become bored with it or lower his guard. Otherwise don’t respond and wait for him to make a mistake.”

Mycroft nodded. “I need food and I’m out of truffles. I’ll try…”

~~

After Sherlock had left with, not one, but three new cases, Mycroft checked his phone once more and found three new texts.

O.O -the pen

The second was a picture of a river with a waterfall amidst interesting red rocks. It was followed by two texts.

Guess where I am and I’ll send you some chocolate! -the pen

No cheating with image search! -the pen

Mycroft stared at the text and fought down his anger. He did not want to _play games_ with Moriarty but Sherlock had a point and he did need to try something new. He sent the picture to his email so that he could use his computer to analyze the area. “I hope he didn’t get my pen wet,” he grumbled while retrieving a bag of lemon iced ginger biscuits from his emergency stash and went to his office.

After eating a few biscuits, he studied the picture. Moriarty had a small injury, a burn. At the base of the thumb nail that was holding the pen. Mycroft frowned and then sent a text.

How did you burn your thumb? -MH

While waiting a few moments to see if he’d get a reply, he straightened out his paperclips. They had become skewed with the rapid and somewhat forceful opening and closing of his desk drawer. They always looked so much better when they were organized. Like soldiers at the ready.

Soldering iron. -the pen

Mycroft stared at the message with horror. Why did Moriarty need to use a soldering iron and had something heinous been done to his pen?! He decided to ignore all those thoughts and finished the bag of biscuits to calm himself. “Sherlock’s right,” he muttered as he glanced at his stomach with a bit of excess padding. 

He focused his attention on the waterfall. The water appeared to be moving rapidly, around 3000 cfs, but he supposed that number might be elevated from average because the United States had received above average rainfall that year.

The stone was a pink to red layered quartzite from the Proterozoic era, probably Sioux quartzite. That narrowed the area down to either the upper Midwest or the Southwest but judging by the environs around the falls, it was most likely the former. Armed with that knowledge, Mycroft created a list of waterfalls that met that criteria and then looked up each one of them until he found the exact location.

Falls Park, Sioux Falls, South Dakota. -MH

He then decided to be annoying and send multiple texts.

131 E Falls Park Dr., Sioux Falls, SD 57104 -MH

43.5570° N, 96.7220° W -MH

He smirked and sent one last text.

Easy peasy, as you like to say. -MH

Feeling rather smug, he went to the kitchen and went through his takeaway menus. He deserved a treat that evening. Just as he’d decided on Manze, the small pack C: two pies, two mash, two liquor, and two jellied eels, he heard his phone chime the notes that he dreaded. A text from Moriarty.

Well done! Daddy’s impressed. Dark, milk, or white chocolate? -the pen

Mycroft smiled and enjoyed a small moment of accomplishment before typing out something close to his usual reply.

In lieu of chocolate, please return my pen. -MH

There was no reply.

~~

Monday afternoon, Mycroft received two postcards from Florida. One showed Miami at night. “I ate waaaaaaay too much in Little Havana but then walked it off at the zoo. Wild animals- RAWRRR!! -the pen” Mycroft rolled his eyes. The second depicted the Everglades. “Went croc hunting! They’re useful for getting rid of bodies. -the pen”

Mycroft stared at both postcards and then poured himself a scotch, followed by another, and then tried to relax so that he could get some work done. He regretted finishing the week’s truffles on Saturday and made room in the following day’s schedule to make another batch.

Tuesday afternoon a postcard from the Willis Tower arrived. “Chicago is wonderful and has everything! Except annoying MI5. Win-Win-Win! The Montegrappa and I may have to relocate here. -the pen.” Mycroft sighed and tucked the postcard in with the rest of them and proceeded to make Thai cashew-butter truffles. No response was the best course of action.

Wednesday afternoon another postcard from Chicago awaited his return. It was of a large ferocious dinosaur. “Sue @the Field Museum could eat you in one bite, Iceman!” Mycroft looked at the date on the postcard and it was before the texts from New Orleans. Shame that. He had contacts in Chicago. 

He entered all the pertinent data into his spreadsheet and then forced himself to work. Thinking about the missing pen and that horrid criminal using it, destroying the nib, leaving his fingerprints and who knew what else all over it would not do him any good. Mycroft didn’t sleep well that night.

Thursday Mycroft had to work late followed by an embassy party. While he usually despised these events and didn’t see them as anything other than an excuse for a smorgasbord of food that he didn’t have to cook, that evening it was a needed escape from what would surely be another taunting postcard or text.

Mycroft was tired all day Friday and left work early. There were three postcards waiting for him. He supposed that was the price to pay for having had a reprieve the previous day. One was from Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky. “What’s the difference between Daddy and you? Daddy doesn’t cave under pressure. -the pen” Mycroft winced. It was true. No matter what they had done, and a lot of it could be classified as torture, Moriarty hadn’t caved. And that was a decent joke.

The second one was of the capitol building in Austin. “They like things big here in Texas. But like all government institutions, it’s burned down twice. I was tempted… third time's the charm, they say, but Whitehall is next! -the pen.” Mycroft rolled his eyes at that bit of silliness but made a mental note to have the fire safety checks done the following morning.

The third one was from Space Center Houston. There was no message but a fascinating drawing of the planets in the solar system. Mycroft was again torn between admiring the art and fretting over his pen nib. He did have to admit that Moriarty truly had a talent for drawing with an ink pen and decided to leave it at that. If he thought about the nib, he’d work himself into an anxiety attack.

Instead he alphabetized the contents of his freezer, which had fallen into a bit of disorganization the past few weeks, and made dark chocolate treacle truffles. Noting that his recipe card was looking a bit frayed around one corner, Mycroft printed another and then was inspired to start another file. He currently had the recipes alphabetized by name but sometimes he craved one particular ingredient. He created a spreadsheet, listed every ingredient, and organized his recipes by those in alpha order. That little accomplishment helped him sleep a bit better.

~~

Mycroft spent most of Saturday working on cases and analyzing data. Sherlock called that morning to complain that he was bored and subtly blamed him for scaring Moriarty away. Mycroft winced at the reminder but pointed out that crown and queen were better off with that man on another land mass even if it was _with his pen_. Eventually he found a case for Sherlock and sent it to his younger brother in exchange for Sherlock dropping by with some sort of takeaway.

Lady Smallwood called twice but not on the emergency line so Mycroft let it go to voicemail. He was in no mood to deal with her. Sherlock actually delivered Chinese before six, which pleased Mycroft immensely. He could eat dinner and then relax with a scotch while watching Alfred Hitchcock’s _Vertigo_. He’d barely opened the first container when his phone chimed indicating that he had a text from Moriarty. He hoped it wouldn’t ruin his appetite.

It was a picture of the two pens leaning against a two foot tall clear plastic replica of the Eiffel tower about a third filled with a pink frozen drink. There were tables, many people, and slot machines in the background. Las Vegas. Another text arrived.

The Monegrapa and I halved a teensy bit to much. -the pen

Mycroft stared at the picture and the text with typos. While the drink was certainly enormous, his gaze focused on the clock at the back of the large room. He quickly transferred the image to his work computer.

Using his office’s forensic-strength focusing software, he sharpened the detail on the clock so that he could determine the time. An unexpected gift! The image was recent. Moriarty was currently in Las Vegas. In a casino. Drunk. 

Mycroft chuckled. “Got you…” He picked up his phone, called the FBI, and explained that MI5 had a reliable sighting of a wanted international terrorist in a casino. While he was transferred to the Las Vegas field office, he redacted a copy of the file they had on Moriarty so that there were no references to Sherlock and then sent it to the director. They assured him that the man would be apprehended _by any means necessary_.


	6. The Case of What Happened in Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft frets over the FBI raid in Lad Vegas.

**The Case of What Happened in Vegas**

Mycroft was ecstatic for a solid twenty minutes after calling the FBI. He saw himself holding his pen, writing to Mummy, and seeing it in its proper place in his desk. He then imagined writing Moriarty little taunting notes to be delivered to the man in prison. It would be the perfect payback.

After finally eating some of the takeaway Sherlock had brought, Mycroft felt himself relaxing and hoping that the end of this nightmare was in sight. His mind began going through all the potential scenarios for retrieving his pen. Mycroft frowned as images of _by any means necessary_ flashed through his mind. The FBI was not always known for its finesse.

What if they shot his pen?  
What if it fell to the floor in the fracas and someone stepped on it?  
What if it got lost and some random drunk gambler found it?  
What if Moriarty purposefully destroyed it?  
What if Moriarty used it as a weapon in his escape attempt?  
Too many possibilities...

Mycroft took one of his anti-anxiety meds and poured himself a scotch before texting Sherlock.

I contacted the FBI. -MH

Re: your pen? -SH

Yes. Now I’m very concerned. -MH

Sherlock called shortly afterward. “Hello,” Mycroft answered.

“What exactly did you do?”

“I called the FBI,” Mycroft answered and sighed. “Moriarty sent me a picture and text which led me to believe that I could extrapolate his location in the United States, which I did and then provided to the FBI.”

“What did they say?”

“They said they would apprehend him by any means.”

“Splendid,” Sherlock said flatly. Mycroft cringed. “And now you’re panicking because it dawned on you what that might actually mean.”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “I also feel stupid for not thinking about it beforehand.”

“You should. And I’m not going to let you live it down for years,” Sherlock stated.

“Sherlock!”

“Mycroft.”

“I just want my pen back,” Mycroft said quietly and hated how pathetic it sounded no matter how true it was.

“I know you do,” Sherlock said gently. “Even if I see things a bit differently, I do understand. I know how upset you’ve been and I see what it’s done to you. I was going to suggest that maybe _I_ could ask Moriarty to return it. Maybe he wanted to get to _me_ through you and I can deal with him more successfully.”

“Right at the end, he said he hated you for turning him in,” Mycroft whispered into the phone.

“What did you do to him?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t ask me that.” His brother was silent. “He was being interrogated for other things as well.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Sherlock finally asked. This time it was Mycroft who remained silent. He didn’t really want to think about the things he had authorized under the auspices of queen and crown. Plus, Moriarty had been a special case. “Never mind,” Sherlock continued. “That tells me enough.” He paused and Mycroft could think of nothing to fill the silence. “Want me to come over while I research this pathetically simply case that you gave me?”

Mycroft was grateful for the change in topic. “It’s a decent case.”

“Yes, but you said it was _interesting_ and that’s what I expected. This is barely a half-step above boring. I’ll be there shortly. Don’t drink until I get there.” They hung up and Mycroft quickly finished his scotch. That helped him feel better. Then he cleaned the living room and kitchen in preparation for Sherlock’s arrival.

~~

Sherlock was late. After two hours he texted that he was on his way to investigate something for Mycroft’s case and would be there as soon as he was done. Sighing, Mycroft guessed that he’d probably be asleep if Sherlock ever did make an appearance.

Just as he was about to start his bedtime routine, the FBI called. Yes, they’d found the international terrorist. No, they hadn’t been able to apprehend him. A gunfight had ensued and several of the group had been wounded but all had managed to escape. Yes, they were monitoring the hospitals and clinics. No, their rooms and belongings had not been located.

Mycroft expressed an appropriate amount of dismay and disapproval, insisted that they keep him posted, and then hung up. Feeling tears well up in his eyes, he proceeded to the bedroom with his favorite bottle of Irish whiskey, the Dead Rabbit, and a Waterford shot glass. After two shots, he was no longer thinking about his pen. After four shots, he fell asleep.

The following morning, Mycroft awoke to the sound of something shrill. Tea kettle. He had a pounding headache. The sound of violin music, Bartók no less, coming through the whole house audio system alerted him to Sherlock’s presence. Mycroft winced. Violin sonata no. 1. It was playing softly but it was still Bartók. Curse his little brother. “Please make some tea,” he called out.

“Are you hungover?” a loud voice asked from the doorway.

Mycroft opened one eye and then quickly closed it. The sun was rather bright. “No,” he replied. “I’m simply under-caffeinated.”

“Bollocks,” Sherlock said cheerfully. “I just poured the water. You. Are a mess. I’ll cook up some breakfast next, so hurry up and fall out of bed. Try not to break anything.” 

Mycroft pulled the covers over his head and groaned. “Can you turn the bloody Bartók _off_?”

“After you get out of bed, you can turn it off yourself,” Sherlock quipped but then his tone softened. “Sausage egg bagel or bacon egg croissant?”

“I don’t care,” Mycroft grumbled and then waited until Sherlock left to take some paracetamol and start his morning routine. He was a bit slower than normal, took time to think things through, but eventually made it to the kitchen. Sherlock had the table in the nook set and the music changed to Pachelbel. “Thank you,” Mycroft said as he sat down.

“This is becoming too much of a habit,” Sherlock noted. 

Mycroft sighed and looked out the window. “I heard from the FBI last night.”

“You seem calm. Good news?”

“No, not really,” Mycroft stated. “There was a gun fight, several of them were shot. No one was captured and they didn’t confiscate any evidence.”

“The FBI at its best,” Sherlock said dryly.

“At least they didn’t get themselves killed or kill any bystanders,” Mycroft continued. “They were going to monitor the hospitals as well as airports, roads, etc… as they normally would for this type of situation.”

“Why did you give a kill order? I assume it was one.”

“I couldn’t say I was sending them in to get my pen back. And he _is_ a terrorist and has connections to international terrorist organizations.”

“But it was really a kill order just to retrieve your pen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mycroft mumbled even though he knew Sherlock’s accusations were valid.

Sherlock shrugged and poured the tea. “The CIA chaps are better at this, I’ve noticed.”

“Well, we work with them directly so we see more of them,” Mycroft said and then agreed. “But yes, they seem much more competent. That tall blond fellow out of Chicago, who hates me, I’d hire him in a heartbeat.”

“Did you ever tell me why he dislikes you?”

“No, no one seems to know,” Mycroft said. “All the subtle queries I’ve made have come back empty. But that’s neither here nor there. They’re going to follow up with me later today and we’ll develop a plan moving forward.”

“I’m hearing that they really have nothing, will confirm that later, and everyone goes back to whatever they were doing before,” Sherlock surmised.

Mycroft was silent for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, that’s an accurate summation.” He took a sip of his tea. “I expect to either never hear from Moriarty again or receive my pen in microscopic bits but I’m not as upset as I thought I’d be,”

“That’s because it’s over.”

“I expect that it is. I expect no more texts or postcards or anything else.” Mycroft pointed to one of the cupboards. I ended up saving the tea he sent me from South Carolina. I’ll drink one a week and think of my pen and the joy it’s brought me throughout the years.”

“You’ve never told me why it’s so special to you,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft shrugged. “I might tell you later, when I’m feeling better about the whole thing, not so raw or upset.”

“When you’re ready, I’d like that.”

“Thank you…”

*~*~*

( _two months later_ )  
Mycroft returned home from an extremely busy and stressful day: MI5 meetings; MI6 meetings; James Bond, agent extraordinaire, gone missing in Croatia; Lady Smallwood inviting him to drinks at Charlies after work- he’d declined; Mrs. Hudson calling concerned that Sherlock was using again- he’d said he’d look into it and made both a mental and physical note to do so; and Geoffrey announcing his plans to retire. Bloody hell. Where was he going to find another competent driver?

That afternoon, waiting for him at home was a postcard from the United States, specifically the Grand Canyon. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should feel dread or elation but he focused his thoughts on his breathing to keep himself calm. While he would never admit to anyone, especially himself, that he did somewhat miss getting the postcards and texts, he worried that this would be a continuation of the nightmare.

The postcard showed a panoramic scene and the back had a message decorated with hearts and stars. Smiling at how pretty the entirety of it was, Mycroft fought down his misgivings. “Dearest Mycroft- I’m sorry that I didn’t realize how much you missed me. After a meeting in Las Vegas where I’m the guest of honor, signing contracts and all, I’m leaving the Montegrappa and coming home. -xoxo the pen.”

“Leaving the Montegrappa,” Mycroft whispered as he sat down in his office. He checked his spreadsheet; the postcard must have gotten lost in the mail. It was dated before the events in Las Vegas. Mycroft traced each little heart with his fingertip and felt hints of what other people called sadness. If this was to be believed his pen would have been on its way home, or even back in his desk, by now.

He stared at Moriarty’s message. It seemed nonchalant and flippant on the surface but it showed some awareness and, perhaps, caring. Had he realized how upset Mycroft was and planned on returning the pen? Perhaps. Unless it was a ploy to get his hopes up and then dash them with nothing. One never knew with Moriarty, but this didn’t seem like a ploy to Mycroft.

The FBI follow-up had been almost no different than their initial summary. No bodies. No one apprehended. No evidence. They were certain no one that their sharpshooters had struck could have survived and Moriarty’s silence since then would seem to confirm that. Feeling a sudden chill, Mycroft sighed. What had he done?

Setting the postcard down, he rose and poured himself a scotch before sitting back down. Sherlock was a priority but before calling his brother, he typed out a single text.

Mr. Moriarty, are you all right? -MH


	7. The Case of the Intrepid Blackmailer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoffrey's farewell dinner takes an unexpected turn.

**The Case of the Intrepid Blackmailer**

Three more months passed and Mycroft received no reply to his text. Sherlock was struggling and every little relapse involved arguments and promises that felt hollow to Mycroft. Followed by guilt. And anxiety. Everytime, he wanted to believe his brother and was proved wrong. Mycroft’s arguments for a stay at rehab fell on deaf ears.

That evening was Geoffrey’s “retirement dinner”. MI5 had hosted a farewell luncheon but Mycroft had wanted to take him, Ben, and Sylvia out for takeaway one last time. Geoffrey selected pizza so that they could bring it to Mycroft’s house, watch one of his avian documentaries, and tease Mycroft about eating pizza with a knife and a fork.

He’d invited his brother but Sherlock claimed to be working on the latest case that Mycroft had provided him: a newspaper editor with a penchant for acquiring information was blackmailing Lady Smallwood and it needed to be dealt with.

After they had finished eating, Geoffrey, Ben, and Sylvia were arguing over which documentary to watch and Mycroft was putting the leftovers in the refrigerator when his phone chimed with that particular ringtone, indicating a text from Moriarty. 

“Oh, no,” Mycroft grumbled and walked toward his phone. The other three paused their discussion. It had been so long and Mycroft dreaded seeing the message. A million images involving his pen, none of them good, flashed through his mind.

“Tell him to come here and I’ll give him a right punch-up,” Sylvia snarled.

“I’m game for beating that tosser to a pulp,” Geoffrey said. “Best going away present I could ask for.”

“Get in line,” Ben added. “I call first shot.”

Chuckling, Mycroft picked up his phone but then stared at the text with horror.

Sherlock is in mortal danger. -JM

A second text with GPS coordinates followed the first one. Mycroft quickly showed the messages to the others then opened the app for the one tracker, which he was sure Sherlock hadn’t found and destroyed yet. It seemed to be active. “Dammit, hurry up,” Mycroft muttered.

“The things always take so bloody long,” Ben grumbled.

“They do,” Mycroft agreed and then the location appeared. He looked up at the other three. “It matches where he should be for the case, the target’s mansion.”

“Let’s go!” Geoffrey suggested. “Out with a bang!” Mycroft stared at him horrified. 

“There’s no time to get another team together!” Ben said.

“We can do this! We’re all SAS, RAC,” Geoffrey continued. Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Geoffrey laughed. “ _Former_ is close enough, sir. You can wait in the car if things go south.”

“I haven’t killed anyone in months,” Sylvia added enthusiastically. “C’mon!”

Somehow, Mycroft found himself in the back of the armored government vehicle that Geoffrey was driving altogether faster and more passionately than Mycroft’s stomach would have preferred despite his panic over Sherlock. Ben was next to him while Sylvia was using all the government navigation systems in the sedan to get them there as quickly as possible while vehemently cursing all the other vehicles on the road. 

Mycroft was torn between wanting to notify the office and hoping that no one found out about this. He realized, however, that since Sherlock was involved, it was guaranteed to blow up no matter how many precautions he took. After a very sharp turn that flung him into Ben, he sent a few texts. The first few went to Anthea so that she could initiate the proper protocols. The last one he sent to Jim Moriarty. Vague enough so that in case it was a trap, the man wouldn’t be expecting _him_.

Thank you. I’ve sent a team. -MH

He received an almost immediate reply.

Blond woman is my contact. -JM

I’m sending medical. -JM

Mycroft stared at that message and then informed Geoffrey, Ben, and Sylvia that there might be a blond woman vaguely on their side. He didn’t want to know why James Moriarty was sending medical.

~~

Mycroft almost laughed when Magnussen’s aide (Irish, in over her head, competent, desperate for money) tried to reach for a gun when they pushed the door open. Geoffrey, Ben, and Sylvia already had their weapons drawn. Assuming that the woman had already signalled some sort of alarm, Mycroft smiled thinly. “I’m looking for my brother,” he said politely. “I know he’s here. We can do this the easy way or the easy way. You can decide how messy it gets for _you_.”

“In- in Mr. Magnussen’s office, Mr. Holmes,” the dark haired woman stammered and pointed to one of the doors. Interesting. She’d known who he was.

“Take us there,” Mycroft ordered. Her demeanor did not reassure him. She seemed aware that something was wrong.

“This way,” she said while rising shakily.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Geoffrey growled. She started trembling as she opened the door.

“Tonight’s his last night,” Sylvia pointed out. “And he has zero fucks left to give, sweetheart.”

“I presume Mr. Magnussen is expecting us,” Mycroft said much more calmly than he was feeling. He drew his Colt Detective Special but kept it hidden. The other three were certainly intimidating enough.

“He… is...” she whimpered and opened the door leading to a very elegant waiting room filled with lush green plants, orchids, and pieces of glass art along with a leather couch, chairs, and an ornate carved hickory wood and etched glass door. 

The woman quickly scampered across the room and opened the door. “Mr. Holmes to see you,” she squealed and then got out of the way. Mycroft moved with the other three just as he thought that perhaps they were rushing into an ambush. 

There was some shouting and Mycroft found himself in Magnussen’s office staring the man down. Magnussen had two guards, a blond woman and a man with dark hair and a goatee. “Well, Mycroft, I hadn’t expected to see you this soon but here we are,” he murmured and eyed the corner of his office

Mycroft’s eyes followed Magnussen’s and fell to Sherlock, crumpled in a corner, bleeding from a gunshot wound to his abdomen. Cold fear washed over Mycroft. He saw very shallow respirations so there might be time left to save him. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he asked icily. “Or suicide?”

“ _He_ broke into my office,” Magnussen stated exuding smarminess. “My guards didn’t know who he was.” He held his hand open in front of himself to express innocence. 

Anger filled Mycroft. The bastard had shot Sherlock. While Mycroft had one extra guard, three to Magnussen’s two, the blond woman was supposedly Moriarty’s and she appeared to be focused not just on the entire room but more so on her supposed partner. The odds were definitely in their favor.

“Perhaps we can discuss things more civilly and call an ambulance,” Magnussen suggested. Blackmail. Using Sherlock as leverage. Political power. Holding his baby brother as a hostage for political gain. 

Mycroft’s anger became fury. “No,” he said and, pretending to be startled by something in the back of the room, looked past Magnussen and to the right. The male guard instinctively looked that way. Mycroft brought his revolver up, the mother of pearl grip glinting in the lights, and shot Magnussen between the eyes. He then immediately dropped to the ground as gunfire erupted around him.

Ben and the blond woman shot the other guard. Geoffrey shot the blond woman in the shoulder as she ducked for cover. Sylvia covered Mycroft and put a few more rounds into Magnussen. After the flurry of bullets, Mycroft looked up even though Sylvia glared at him to stay down. “Drop your weapon,” he said in the direction of the woman. “I have it on only mildly questionable authority that you don’t actually work for Mr. Magnussen.”

“I don’t,” she said in a labored voice while setting her pistol on the ground and pushing it towards them. Sylvia and Ben moved to restrain her and check her injuries. Geoffrey shifted to position of point and Mycroft moved to Sherlock to inspect the gunshot wound. “The ambulance…” the woman gasped as Ben cuffed her a bit roughly. She was bleeding from the wound but it didn’t seem lethal. “The ambulance is already... on its way.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said coldly while applying direct pressure to Sherlock’s wound. “I was informed. Sylvia, please call the office and have them send the overabundance of teams that they feel the need to send, as well as two ambulances, just in case.”

“Yes, sir,” Sylvia replied.

“I didn’t... hit…” the woman mumbled and then fell unconscious. Mycroft heard the sirens in the distance.

*~*~*

( _the following afternoon_ )  
Mycroft waved to his driver for that day, Chadrick, and entered his home. He was exhausted and there were _no truffles_ waiting for him. He had planned on making some after Geoffrey’s farewell takeaway the previous evening but instead he’d spent the night, morning, and afternoon in the hospital.

Sherlock was in critical care but stable. The surgeon had noted how little damage had been done by the bullet. Everyone in Magnussen’s compound had been arrested and were being questioned. Mycroft had stayed at Sherlock’s side as much as he could but then had been sent home. His brother was out of immediate danger and Mycroft was told that he needed to rest so that he could analyse the results and do further interrogations if needed on Sunday.

He re-armed the house security system, showered, and collapsed on his bed, however, rest would not come. Eventually Mycroft gave up and got dressed. He watched a documentary on the merlins of the moorlands. They were such darling little raptors. It soothed him enough that he decided to make truffles even if it was a bit on the late side. A glass of scotch while doing so would be even more delightful.

Before starting, he remembered that he should clean his revolver. While he’d never expected to have to use it in the field, it had served him well. Sherlock was alive!

Walking into his office, he turned on the lights and stared at several packages on his desk. Those had not been there when he’d left the previous morning. He approached cautiously and then gasped when he saw the familiar box that usually held his pen. Even though a small voice suggested that it could be a trap, he opened the box and gasped. Nestled inside was... _his pen_.


	8. The Case of the Perplexed Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft deals with the aftermath of Friday night.

**The Case of the Perplexed Mycroft**

Mycroft stared at his pen and felt months of anxiety flow out of him. His pen. He was holding _his pen_. It was intact. There were no scratches, dents, or dings. No signs of abuse whatsoever. Surprising.

Opening the top right drawer, he retrieved a piece of writing paper and his favorite ink. After filling the reservoir, he wrote out a few sentences. It felt a little different but nothing significant. The nib seemed undamaged and was writing in close to the way that it usually did. 

Mycroft gently kissed the top of the cap. “Welcome home…” He held the pen in his hand, closed his eyes, and savored the feel of it. His pen was back! After a few minutes he set the pen down and eyed the rest of what had been left on his desk.

It was an assortment of boxes. Mycroft wondered if he should burn the lot of them as a precaution or send them all in to be examined before opening them. Sighing, he decided that he was just too tired to bother. Moriarty would have certainly had enough time to kill him or do any number of horrendous things if such had been his goal. Killing him now, via explosive gifts, would be mildly anti-climatic. 

Mycroft carefully opened each one and was perplexed by the contents. There were a myriad of inks, some in colors, like neon pink, that he’d never dream of using, and one bottle of marine-scented blue ink. That was intriguing. Mycroft had heard of perfumed inks before but had never been motivated enough to investigate. He carefully opened the bottle and sniffed cautiously. It was lovely.

Only two boxes were ink-free. One box had a pen sheath. It appeared used. Mycroft guessed that Moriarty had used it to carry his pen. It was a light brown, soft leather with a snakeskin pattern. He slipped his pen in it then pulled it out, noting how sensually it slid against the leather, and then tucked it into his jacket breast pocket. The pen felt safe there. No, wait, rather, after everything, he felt safe having it there. How had Moriarty known? Was that how the man had kept his pen?

The last box contained fine Irish truffles. Mycroft looked longingly at them while thinking that each one should be tested. Death by truffle sounded unusual enough that Moriaty might contemplate it. Mycroft then looked in the direction of the kitchen, realizing full well that he would not get to making truffles that evening or possibly even the following day. 

Caution be damned. He ate one. Then another. Each one was more delicious than the next. Mycroft savored focusing on the subtlety and nuance of each flavor instead of imagining his brother bleeding out in a corner of Magnussen’s office and thinking about the fact that he had killed a man. 

~~

Mycroft woke up the following morning exhausted but felt a little better once he checked the reports from the hospital. Sherlock continued to improve. Once Mycroft’s morning routine was completed, he wrote Mummy a long letter explaining how Sherlock had been shot and the evil international terrorist had not only gifted him with Irish chocolate truffles, all of which had been rather tasty, but had returned his pen. He neglected to mention how caution and security had been thrown to the wind during the weekend. Mummy didn’t need to be worried about certain things.

After sealing the letter and putting a stamp on it, Mycroft checked his socks and pants drawer to make sure that everything was neat, organized, and in its proper place before alphabetizing his database of agents and intelligence assets by third letter of the last mission each had been involved with. Later he reread all the reports from the hospital. Sherlock had been moved to intensive care that morning. He spent his few waking moments tormenting the nursing staff, asking for medical lab results and demanding specific tests. Mycroft tsked but silently cheered his little brother on.

He then picked up his cell, wished he had some more truffles, and texted Moriarty.

Thank you for your assistance with Sherlock. -MH

I hesitate to think of what would have happened without your correspondence. -MH

He stared at the two messages and decided that they were a bit cold.

All things considered, I don’t know why you intervened. -MH

But I am exceedingly grateful that you did. -MH

He then reviewed the information on Magnussen and Moriarty’s blonde agent. Mary Morstan, previously Rosamund Wallace. She’d been part of a paramilitary unit called AGRA, that had done some work for British intelligence. After a disastrous mission, she’d gone underground and no one had heard anything more of her. 

Per her statement, she’d been ordered to shoot Sherlock by Magnussen after the two had had a lengthy argument over information possessed by Magnussen. She’d targeted non-vital areas knowing that Mr. Moriarty had a personal interest in Sherlock and did not want him killed.

She’d been assigned to work with Magnussen by Moriarty for whom she’d been doing contract work for several years, since the demise of AGRA. She’d also related that she’d been in contact with Moriarty since Sherlock had entered Magnussen’s property and she’d done her utmost to ensure his survival based on Mr. Moriarty’s instructions.

Mycroft sighed and tapped out another text.

Why? -MH

Why save Sherlock?  
Do you still hate him?  
Why return my pen now?  
Do you still hate me?  
Why take such good care of the pen?  
How did you manage to use it without altering it?  
Why did you send Ms. Morstan to infiltrate Magnussen?  
What was your connection to Magnussen?  
Did you set him up to die?  
Why include all the little gifts?

He wasn’t sure which question he was asking with that “why” but perhaps Moriarty would know which answer to give him and he could go from there.

There was no immediate reply so Mycroft contemplated his options. Data analysis had to happen. He should keep tabs on Sherlock’s progress and behavior. Currently he had three outstanding cases and six more in the urgent queue all of which needed some attention. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft decided that blueberry creme truffles should be the first order of business. Everything else could wait.

~~

Mycroft chose not to go into work. He analysed each report that came in from the various interrogations and provided both assistance and direction. That would have to be sufficient until the following morning. Through his nurse, Mycroft was informed that Sherlock firmly insisted that he did not want any visitors, especially his brother. That hurt. His nurse explained that Sherlock was dealing with withdrawal as well as the gunshot wound. It still hurt.

After taking Mrs. Arrington’s corgi for an evening stroll, Mycroft realized that, besides Irish chocolate truffles, which apparently hadn’t killed him, he hadn’t eaten since the previous day and that had been something from the hospital cafeteria. Frowning, he thought about what he wanted to order but all he kept seeing was Sherlock on the floor of Magnussen’s office.

Mycroft texted Anthea and requested that she send some sort of takeaway that didn’t involve red sauce. After a few minutes, she texted that steamed chicken and vegetables with white rice was on its way. Mycroft thanked her and then tried to watch a documentary on the birds of northern Scotland. He couldn’t muster enough interest to watch more than the first five minutes.

Making another batch of truffles was out of the question as he was running low on a few key ingredients. After setting a reminder to order groceries the following morning, he then reorganized his ties alphabetically first by the color of the slip stitch then by the first name of the designer even though he eventually decided that it wasn’t very practical. The completed project did not satisfy him.

Sighing, Mycroft turned the documentary on again and texted Moriarty. Not that he expected a reply.

Thank you for the truffles as well. -MH

He leaned his head back against the couch, closed his eyes, and listened to the documentary while trying to keep images from Friday evening out of his mind. It didn’t quite work and eventually he took one of his anti-anxiety medications before going to bed.

*~*~*

The following morning Mycroft got up an hour earlier than usual. He returned his tie collection back to its previous order- first by the designer’s last name then by third letter of the main color- followed by placing his grocery order. There were no new reports from the hospital and no texts on his phone. He supposed that no news was good news.

Work was mostly atrocious with interrogations to be completed and a myriad of forms to be filled out. Killing Magnussen had been more of a public service than anyone had realized but there were still endless paperwork and questionnaires to be completed. The only upside to it all was that Lady Smallwood seemed disturbed by the matter and avoided all conversation with him. A small blessing.

He, Ben, and Sylvia went to a nearby pub for lunch and had fish and chips. Mycroft ordered extra chips using the excuse that he’d had too much exercise and adventure over the weekend and needed to fortify himself. Geoffrey joined them for dessert- sticky toffee pudding with extra ice cream and whipped cream- and professed to be immensely bored with retirement. Mycroft pointed out that he hadn’t been assigned a new driver yet and the revolving door of temporaries was not an optimal situation. Geoffrey laughed at that and emphatically stated that he was finished with government work. No one believed him.

His afternoon agenda was slightly better than the morning but not by much. He reviewed Ms. Morstan’s case, the information Sherlock had managed to provide, and then personally interviewed her. She was definitely interesting. Mycroft decided that she could be useful to British Intelligence and set her up to work with MI6 on low-risk assignments for starters. Nothing where important information could be delivered to Moriarty.

That evening he paid Sherlock a visit and it was bittersweet. His brother was angry and upset over what had happened and didn’t want to appear weak in front of Mycroft but he was also obviously in withdrawal. Mycroft assured him that he’d done well, that his primary focus should be recovery on all counts, and that there would be interesting cases and tasty truffles waiting for him when he was discharged. 

Sherlock commended him on his marksmanship but insisted that he would no longer take any of Mycroft’s cases. _Too boring_. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft bid him a good evening and thanked the nurses before heading home. Perhaps life would return to normal soon.


	9. The Case of the Lonely Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes truffles, drinks Scotch, and tries to keep Sherlock out of trouble as well as his own life in order.

**The Case of the Lonely Pen**

That Friday, Mycroft added several things to the Friday evening ritual. After the tea was steeping, he sent Sherlock a text even though he knew his younger brother would not reply.

Do try to not annoy the nurses overly much. -MH

He wanted to make sure that Sherlock knew that he was cherished and not forgotten. After dinner, Thai takeaway that evening, he poured himself a glass of Scotch, wrote Mummy’s card, and then retrieved all the postcards Moriarty had sent him. Looking at them, now that his pen had been returned, somehow filled him with a sense of amusement at Moriarty’s mischief and a peculiar sort of emptiness. There would be no more postcards.

He wasn’t sure what to make of his feelings about that. Moriarty was a complex conundrum and an enigma. Mycroft had no answers, only haphazard guesses at best. And what was that strange feeling that was lurking when he stopped thinking. Sighing, Mycroft decided that it had to be fatigue. He put the first postcard he’d received from the pen on the refrigerator and made lemongrass ginger truffles. Before going to bed, he sent Moriarty a text.

Does Ms. Morstan still work for you? -MH

There was no reply but Mycroft hadn’t been expecting one. 

~~

The following Friday, he maintained the same routine: a few texts to Sherlock, chocolate mint truffles, and a text to Moriarty.

Are you involved in the R. Tyler case? -MH

~~

Maple pecan truffles.

The tea from the states was rather nice for tea from the states. -MH

~~

Caramelized banana truffles. One of his favorites.

Why did you steal my pen? Only to return it? -MH

~~

Cardamom orange truffles.

Do you like opera? Sherlock doesn’t. I invited him. He declined. -MH

~~

Red wine and walnut truffles.

I went to the opera. _Die Zauberflöte_ was ravishing. It’s not for children. -MH

~~

That particular Friday, after inquiring about Sherlock’s health and casework, Mycroft sent an additional text to his brother before making black forest truffles. 

Please dissuade Dr. Watson from dating Ms. Morstan. -MH

He then texted Moriarty.

Please dissuade Ms. Morstan from dating Dr. Watson. -MH

~~  
The following Friday, Mycroft altered his routine. He put extra chocolate and whiskey in his tea, followed by a whiskey sour before his usual Friday evening Scotch, the Balvenie 12 Year Old Doublewood. It had been an infuriating week at work in general but then everything starting on Thursday had gone south. Sherlock had solved three difficult cases but then had been found in a drug den in the middle of an overdose. After a sleepless night at his brother’s side, Mycroft had checked him into rehab Friday morning but his brother was already combative.

Dr. Watson had proposed to Agent Morstan, who Mycroft was certain was still reporting to Moriarty. She had then requested being moved to the 00 program because she had successfully completed a tricky mission in Russia that required finesse. She’d somehow managed to get the information that England wanted out of Moscow but her idea of finesse was to kill them all. Mycroft was still cleaning up the diplomatic repercussions.

After a second Scotch, he decided that he would postpone writing Mummy’s card. They’d already had numerous phone calls regarding Sherlock and she and Father were coming to London the following day. She would understand a small delay. He made marshmallow almond truffles and texted Sherlock while enjoying his third Scotch even though he knew his brother wasn’t allowed a cell phone in rehab.

Mummy is not amused. -MH

I will be walking Ms. Arrington’s corgi during their visit. -MH

^Mrs. -MH

Mycroft then changed the postcard on his refrigerator to one with a drawing. “How does he do that so well?” he mumbled and then pulled the pen from his pocket. He’d started keeping it there in the leather sheath. It was rather convenient. After staring at it for a moment, he tried to draw a goldfish. It looked like something cousin Albert had drawn when he’d been two. “An artist, I am not,” he mumbled. Setting the pen aside, he finished his Scotch, poured another, and texted Moriarty. Slowly and carefully so as to not make mistakes.

Where did you learn to draw so well? -MH

My pen misses the Montegrappa. -MH

That weekend, Mycroft buried himself in work, thereby avoiding his family. While he felt guilty, the Scotch, truffles, and whatever takeaway Anthea sent got him through. He suspected that she was checking in with Ben about what to send him.

~~

By the following Friday, every situation was a bit more stable but not really improved. Mycroft tried to return to his evening rituals. After downing the glass of Friday evening Scotch, he wrote Sherlock a letter expressing his worries, concerns, and hope for the future. He knew that his brother would hate the letter but there were some things that needed to be said. He hoped that Sherlock would understand that they came from a place of love and concern.

After making champagne white chocolate truffles with gold leaf, he watched two documentaries prepared by the Scottish Owl Centre while enjoying a few, three to be exact, glasses of Dalmore 30 Year Old Stillman's Dram Scotch that he’d bought for himself after his parents had left. Mummy had gifted him with a bottle of Crème Yvette liqueur to thank him for rescuing Sherlock once more. He’d put that thing in the back of the cabinet to await Lady Smallwood’s birthday.

The documentaries had left him feeling unsatisfied and he couldn’t pinpoint what he wanted or needed. After pouring himself another Scotch, he went to his office, sat down, and placed the pen on his desk, where he could look at it as he did other things. Perhaps he needed a globetrotting adventure just like his pen. It would get him away from the current drudgery of his life.

Laughing dryly, Mycroft knew that he would get no such reprieve until Sherlock had stopped using and was not in danger of relapsing, and that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Sipping his Scotch he looked longingly at all the postcards over and over until he finished his drink. He then reviewed each and every text that he’d sent Moriarty. 

The man had not replied to a single one of them and Mycroft frowned. A bit more clumsily than he liked, his hand was shaking a bit, he poured himself another Scotch. He clearly needed a new approach. It took Mycroft entirely too long to properly change the ownership of his phone. “This will show him,” he muttered and then looked at his pen. “How dare he ignore us?” He took a very long sip. “What do you want to say?”

I miss the Montegrappa! -the pen

Let’s go to Paris! -the pen

I am bored with that man! -the pen

All he does is right. -the pen

After five minutes with no reply, which frustrated him to no end, and one more Scotch, Mycroft found some holiday curling ribbon and tried to put a bow around his pen. He couldn’t quite get it to look pretty so he hung the pen from one of his mixing spoons, took a picture, and sent it.

SAVE ME! He’s lost his mind! -the pen

After sending that text, Mycroft put the pen on his desk again, put the Scotch away, drank a large glass of water, and collapsed onto his bed. 

The following morning he woke up late with a throbbing headache but found that he had a reply from Moriarty. He made a pot of tea and slowly completed his morning routine before reading it.

Stop drinking. -JM

Mycroft sighed. The man was right. He’d been drinking entirely too much the past ten days. Blaming stress and Sherlock was just an excuse, albeit a good one. He probably wasn’t eating enough, certainly not exercising, and letting himself become overwhelmed and obsessed with work. And Sherlock. He needed to take better care of himself. 

Sipping his tea, Mycroft put all the alcohol out of easy reach and then cleaned the kitchen. Thoroughly. After a brisk walk with the corgi, Mycroft sat on the couch and read Melville’s _The Confidence-Man_ while listening to Tubby Hayes. Mr. Tubbs was good for his soul.

Once he felt refreshed, he went to his office, sat down, and removed the ribbon from his poor pen. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Last night was a bit not good.” He looked over the texts he’d sent and shook his head. “What am I doing?” He supposed that he should send Moriarty a normal text. After a few minutes of pondering the matter, he brought the pen to the kitchen, made an artful plate with the pen surrounded by truffles, and took a picture. 

Not knowing what to say, he simply sent the photo and went back to reading with another cup of tea. 

Lunch was a pressed Cuban sandwich with pea and mint soup from one of his favorite cafés. The gherkins that came with it and the mint in the soup did wonders to help his stomach feel better. He’d ordered a coconut hazelnut religieuse for tea time and had _one_ truffle for dessert. 

After scheduling another walk with the corgi in the afternoon, Mycroft rotated the dining room chairs around the table as he did every six weeks so that one would not get more sunlight and fade disproportionately from the others. He then sat down in his office to work on a case involving the Taiwanese government and diamond smugglers in Birmingham.

Just before tea time, he heard the security system chime indicating that someone had opened the front door. The list of those that would show up unannounced and knew the security codes were limited. To one. “Sherlock,” he called out as he rose. “If you’ve escaped from rehab yet again, I’m not sure what I’m going to do but it will involve Mummy.” 

Mycroft strode into the foyer and stopped short. Petit. Short dark hair. Light gray suit. Smug, mischievous smirk. _James Moriarty_.


	10. The Case of the Sassy Corgi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Jim Moriarty take the corgi for a stroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating. I ran headfirst into some deadlines and then preparing for a trip. I'm still out of the country and internet is sketchy at best but updates should be a bit more regular.

**The Case of the Sassy Corgi**

“Most people knock,” Mycroft blurted out without thinking.

“I’m not most people,” Moriarty replied while hanging up his coat in Mycroft’s closet. He peeked around the door and shot him a satisfied grin.

Mycroft noted that the man was wearing an elegant French grey Prada suit, an off white shirt that softened his features, and a black silk Alexander McQueen dancing skeleton tie. “I see you’re letting the skeletons dance out of your closet,” he said crisply.

“I wore it for _you_. You’ve been letting yours out to play a teensy bit too frequently,” Moriarty said evenly, without a trace of emotion. Mycroft cringed. Moriarty continued, “I’m concerned.”

Mycroft nodded but before he could speak, there was a knock on the door. He frowned. That could only be his neighbor. What horrid timing. “Excuse me,” he said, opening the door. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Arrington with Miss Charlotte on a new lead- pink leather with rhinestones. Frowning, he stared at the glittering rhinestones while trying to come up with a polite excuse.

“She insisted,” Mrs. Arrington said, seeming to assume that he didn’t like the lead. “I would have preferred something a bit more traditional like all her other leads but she threw a dreadful tantrum. She said she wanted something more daring, the silly dear.” Mycroft couldn’t imagine the well-mannered corgi displaying more than mild disgruntlement.

“I approve,” Jim said. “It shows her delightful sense of style.”

Mrs. Arrington giggled but then Mycroft gently interjected, “I have to apologize but-” Miss Charlotte took the opportunity to pull away from Mrs. Arrington, bolt into the house, and sit on Moriarty’s shoe. Both Mycroft and Mrs. Arrington gasped. Laughing, Moriarty picked up the corgi and touched noses with her. 

“I am so sorry,” Mrs Arrington said. “She’s not normally this feisty. She usually only tolerates myself, my niece Louise, or, of course, Mr. Holmes.”

“We would be delighted to take this sweet little one for a walk,” Moriarty said while gently setting Miss Charlotte down. “I’m good with four legged friends and I’m honored that she trusts me.” He smiled charmingly at Mrs. Arrington while Miss Charlotte settled on his shoe again. “See, she adoooores me already.”

“I _do_ see,” Mrs. Arrington noted and then smiled pointedly at Mycroft. “Take as long of a walk with her as you’d like.” She dropped her voice to _sotto voce_. “Don’t scare this one off, Mycroft. I approve.” Mycroft smiled wanly, knowing that the woman would be badgering him for days about this.

“We’ll take good care of her,” Moriarty said.

“You behave, Miss Charlotte,” Mrs. Arrington said and then lifted her hand to say good-bye. “See you when you get back.”

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief as soon as she left. “I didn’t know you liked dogs, Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft said after a few moments of silence. “Or that dogs tolerated you.”

“Call me Jim,” Moriarty said, “Or James, like the good old days.” Mycroft cringed at the reference to interrogation. “And I like all animals. They don’t betray you.”

“That’s true,” Mycroft agreed. “Do you have one?

James shook his head. “Not with my lifestyle,” he said and Mycroft thought he heard hints of sadness.

“I understand,” Mycroft said. “The best I can manage is walking Miss Charlotte when time permits.” James nodded. Mycroft ushered them out of the house and then turned on the alarm.

They both walked in silence for several blocks. Mycroft wanted to ask so many questions but eventually brought up the subject that was most important to him. His brother. “Thank you again for your help in saving Sherlock. I don’t know why you would do that but I’m grateful.”

James sighed. “I was furious. Before. I’m still angry over what he did but that doesn’t mean I want him to die.” Mycroft nodded. “Unless I’m the one that kills him.” Mycroft tensed; that was a bit not good. “No one else is allowed to touch him.” Vaguely reassuring in all the wrong ways. “But, that said, I think the world would be a drearier place without him.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and firmly stated, “My brother means everything to me and _you_ are a threat to him.”

“We were just having a little fun,” Jim said and pouted. 

“Murderous cabbies, international criminal organizations, smuggling, and poison are hardly considered fun.”

“Sherly is smart. This was fun for him.”

“I know and that’s what worries me,” Mycroft said and then handed Moriarty the lead. “Sherlock’s idea of fun is explosions, guns and bullets, people like you, lethal puzzles, heroin, cocaine, murders, intricate, deadly, and hazardous contraptions, a whole lot of things that could get him killed.”

“He was never in any real danger.” Jim said reassuringly. “Maybe he needs you to trust him.” 

Mycroft heard the words but couldn’t quite fathom the meaning. “I have spent pretty much the entirety of his waking life getting him out of scrapes, bandaging wounds, getting him down from too tall trees, cleaning broken glass so he doesn’t hurt himself, pulling him, near death, out of drug dens, preventing kitchen chemistry explosions and using violin strings for god-only-knows what, and mitigating serious repercussions with Mummy and father, the school headmasters, the police, everyone. Magnussen. It never ends. And then _you_ open a whole new world of danger and disaster.”

James was silent for a moment and then looked at Mycroft pensively. “Did you ever ask him what was important to him?” Mycroft felt as though time stopped. Those words reverberated through him like an earthquake. Because, no, he hadn’t. He’d been too worried or shocked by the immediate circumstances and their aftermath.

“Was there a butterfly whose flight patterns he had to observe near the top of the tall tree?” Moriarty asked quietly. “Did he need to develop an important compound to potentially save someone’s life? Did he want to study the fusion patterns of fused glass?”

Momentarily closing his eyes, Mycroft felt a thousand deductions fell into place as he heard Moriarty’s voice continue softly. “Sherlock and his endless curiosity simply wanted to know everything. The world is beautiful, fascinating, and filled with endless mystery and wonder.” 

Mycroft frowned. _How did I not see that_?! James answered his unspoken question.“You were overwhelmed with panic for his safety.” 

“How do you know that?” Mycroft asked and then the answer became apparent.

“We’re a lot alike, he and I,” Moriarty answered. “Mine was beaten out of me at an early age.”

“But you immediately recognized the same spirit in him,” Mycroft surmised. Moriarty nodded. “You were reaching out and all I saw was the danger.”

“I _was_ doing other things as well, mind you,” Jim said. “Business, you know.”

“Always,” Mycroft agreed. 

“But yes, I saw a kindred spirit. Someone who still had the same spark I had; someone who reminded me of me.”

Mycroft was astounded at seeing his brother’s relationship with Moriarty in such a different light. “You were both grasping for something you desperately wanted and finally seemed within reach.” 

James smiled sincerely, which was a bit shocking for Mycroft to see, but then took Mycroft’s free hand in his own. “You only saw the danger, not the rest of it.”

Mycroft knew that was the truth. It was always the truth. Whenever he dealt with Sherlock, gave him cases, watched his interactions with new people, there was always the fear of what could happen and that whatever happened next would hurt his beloved younger brother. “Promise me that you won’t endanger Sherlock anymore,” he asked. “Despite everything, you’ve always kept your word. Just promise me that.”

James squeezed his fingers. “Promise…”


	11. The Case of the Properly Organized House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Moriarty have tea and truffles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've managed to find some internet but I'm not sure when next I'll be able to get online. Replies may take a while.

**The Case of the Properly Organized House**

They finished the walk discussing the plants in people’s gardens and which ones were toxic and how they could be used. Mycroft felt reassured that James no longer posed a threat to Sherlock. The fact that Ms. Charlotte liked the man was surprising but also comforting. Animals usually had a good sense about people. Mycroft hoped that he could convince James to stay a bit longer, if he were truly honest with himself, he’d enjoyed their walk together. “Would you care for tea?” he asked as they moved toward the kitchen.

“I came for tea,” James replied saucily. “Tea and truffles, I believe.” He smirked and Mycroft had to admit that when it wasn’t involved with Sherlock or some sort of international terrorism, it was a rather adorable smirk. James continued, “That picture you sent was nothing but an invitation and what else does one serve with truffles but either wine or tea?”

“I can do either or both,” Mycroft stated even though he wasn’t all that excited about having anything alcoholic any time soon.

“Tea is fine,” James said as they meandered to the kitchen. “And I agree, by the way. The tea from the states was rather nice... for tea from the states.”

“I believe I saw that it is the only working tea plantation stateside,” Mycroft said as he set the water to boil.

“It is,” James said. “I rather enjoyed it. They do tours and serve tea. We had a lot of fun.”

Mycroft chose not to ask for clarification on the we. “Which tea would you prefer?” he asked instead. “I have Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Masala, and a new one that I just picked up at the tea shop, Raspberry Apricot Ceylon. I haven’t tried it yet so I can not vouch for its tea-worthiness.”

James snorted but his lips cracked into a tiny smile. “Let’s try that one,” he said. “If we don’t like it, I’ll have one the boys bring some Semtex over and we’ll give it a proper send off.” Mycroft’s eyes widened at the mention of the word Semtex. “I’m joking,” James added and held up his hands to profess innocence.

“I’m not sure that I trust you when Semtex is involved.”

“Probably wise.”

“Do you want to sit down for a proper tea?” Mycroft asked. He had some frozen pastries that could be reheated at a moments notice. “You can relax and I’ll have everything ready in a minute.”

James smiled almost shyly. “You know what I’d like?” he said. Mycroft looked up from arranging the truffles in concentric circles on the plate. “I’d like a mug instead of a fancy tea cup.”

Mycroft frowned momentarily but then smiled. “Of course, that’s certainly easy enough.” Mugs? Why on earth would the man want mugs? He pulled out two of his most interesting mugs- Wedgewood Blue Elephant- admittedly his favorite, and in a few minutes had tea brewing in the kettle. After bringing the tea tray, truffles, and some chocolate iced biscuits from his emergency unexpected company stash to the dining room, they both sat down.

Moriarty sighed contentedly and Mycroft poured the tea. He knew he shouldn’t spoil the pleasant moment but he simply couldn’t help himself. “Why did you steal my pen?” he blurted out.

“I could tell you,” Moriarty said dramatically, “but then I’d have to kill you.” His nose crinkled and he smiled mischievously. Mycroft desperately tried to not find that adorable as well. “Will you show me your house first.”

“My house?” Mycroft stared at the man. Why would he want to see the house? He’d been there before with ample time to explore as well as steal his pen. “You’ve been here and I’m quite sure you know where everything is.” 

Moriarty smirked again. “I would like to see everything from your perspective and with the proper explanation.”

“You could simply have asked for an invitation, you know.”

“And you would have had me arrested again,” James noted. “Not the same thing.” He picked up one of the truffles that Mycroft had artfully arranged on the plate, popped it into his mouth and then sighed as it melted. “Mmmmmmmmm….” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back in exquisite pleasure. “Mmmmm, mmmm, mmmmhhhhhhhh. This is heaven Mycroft.” He moaned orgasmically.

Mycroft felt his cheeks pinken. A _passable_ uttered by Sherlock was usually the highest compliment he’d ever received. “I’m glad you approve,” he murmured.

“That was better than sex in a crown, honey,” James proclaimed. Mycroft blushed further at the thought of not only sex, but sex with James Moriarty and the crown jewels. “But anyway, I want to see the _what_ , even if I’ve seen it all before, and I also want to know the _why_.” Picking up his mug, he rose, Mycroft followed, and walked into the kitchen. Opening the cupboard that contained his glassware. “Like this. It’s all in a particular order. _Why_?”

“That’s easy,” Mycroft stated while wondering why James wanted to know about his organization. “I drink, well, used to because I’m stopping or cutting back significantly.”

“You do and good idea.”

“I drink mostly scotch or water so the tumblers are within easy hand’s reach. The Glencairn glasses are above them, also within easy reach. The next three most frequently used are highball, lowball, and snifter.” He pointed to each one. “Alpha order. The rest are behind them also in alpha order but if there are differing sizes of each one, shorter goes in front of taller.” Moriarty looked ecstatic. “Because it’s not only easier that way but more aesthetically pleasing.”

“Short before tall,” James stated playfully.

Mycroft eyed him suspiciously. “If it pleases you to think of things that way, then certainly.” The man smirked yet again. Each smirk somehow seemed slightly different than the previous one. Mycroft decided to point out the obvious, teasingly of course. “You _are_ rather short."

“The taller they are the harder they fall,” James quickly retorted.

“I’m surprised you didn’t opt for best before last.”

“That works too, darling,” James said and beamed. “Let’s have a few more truffles.” Mycroft snorted indignantly but James continued unabashed, “I want all that. I want to see all your things and your wonderful whys.”

Mycroft sighed. No one ever found him interesting. He was sure that the man would find some way to use the information against him but he didn’t care. At that moment, it felt like he was finally sharing a small part of himself with someone who was genuinely interested and wasn’t going to judge him.

After handing Moriarty the entire plate of truffles, with a warning glare that the man seemed inclined to ignore, he topped off their mugs with a bit more tea, and then proceeded to show off every nook and cranny of his house. Even though he was immensely proud of his abode, he was fairly certain that James would call a stop fairly quickly. The man didn’t. James did sigh, as though lost in ecstasy, at every new example of his organization as well as with every truffle. 

Myroft was embarrassed at first but then secretly enjoyed each small exclamation of pleasure. “May I feed you one?” he finally asked, a bit tentatively, after having shown James his sock drawer and given him the full explanation of its layout.

Moriarty laughed and smiled genuinely. It was the typical Moriarty smile but there was innocence and a certain amount of hope behind it which both enthralled and enticed Mycroft. He didn’t know what to make of that. “Of course,” Jim said and opened his mouth expectantly. Mycroft gently and as properly as he could manage, placed one on Jim’s tongue.

Jim’s lips closed around his fingers and he felt Jim’s tongue sensually wrap around his fingers and pull the truffle away, The man moaned and Mycroft couldn’t help but shudder. No one had ever reacted to him in that way. Not even Arthur… so many years ago… There had always been a purity and intensity to Moriarty and his emotions and expressions, even when Mycroft had been certain it was an act, that blew his mind away. Mycroft moaned softly before realizing what he was doing.

“How long has it been?” James asked.

Mycroft stared at him. The intensity was still there and the openness and starkness in Moriarty’s gaze left him feeling raw. “Too long,” he answered truthfully and then changed the subject to break the tension. “Why did you steal my pen?”

James laughed, ate another truffle, and sipped his tea. He then indicated the entirety of Mycroft’s room and house by opening his arms wide. “This is so beautiful, and it stopped me,” he answered and led the way back to the kitchen. “Because I came here to _kill you_ , Mycroft...”


	12. The Case of the Mitigating Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Jim continue to talk and share truffles.

**The Case of the Mitigating Circumstances**

“You came here to kill me,” Mycroft repeated quite properly to buy himself some time as he processed the information. The reasons why were clearly obvious but not why Moriarty had changed his mind. Mycroft’s fingers clenched the mug and he wondered if he weren’t in peril despite the evidence pointing against that.

“I was angry,” James explained. “Enraged. I understand more now but I was furious at you and Sherlock.” Pursing his lips, Mycroft felt himself start to worry about Sherlock again.

“Yes, I know he was involved in my capture,” Moriarty continued while eyeing him annoyedly. “With no accountability, you plucked me off the street and, if I hadn’t had the failsafes that I did, and do, have, I would have disappeared. Permanently.”

Mycroft looked away. Everything that the man had said was correct. He’d been prepared to eliminate Moriarty and had only refrained because the consequences to England and Sherlock would have been too dire. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted quietly. “Once you’d given us all that we’d wanted, and I realize what a fantasy that was now, you were going to be quietly eliminated.”

“I know,” Moriarty said. and sipped his tea. “I didn’t think I’d provoked you enough to even warrant your attention.”

“You were putting Sherlock in danger,” Mycroft said and again, those words felt hollow. He _now_ knew that Sherlock had never been in real danger from Moriarty. He could see what the two of them had been doing with greater clarity. They had been playing games, searching for something that had eluded them since childhood, and finding joy in a person who was, in many ways, perfect for the other.

Mycroft suddenly felt sadness. “I _thought_ you were putting Sherlock in danger, grievous danger.” He took a sip of his tea and forced himself to continue even though he also started feeling tinges of guilt and shame as well. “I have a better understanding now. I would not have acted to the extent that I did if I had known.” Mycroft sighed and then looked at James pointedly. “But how do we get from killing me to stealing my pen?”

“Let me show you,” Moriarty said in a way that reminded Mycroft so much of Sherlock. James opened the refrigerator door. “Trigger here,” he pointed out. “Sets off an explosion in the north corner of the house, followed by one in the east, then one in the west, and lastly one, the largest, in the south. Complete obliteration.”

“With no way for me to escape,” Mycroft murmured.

“Not only that, but timed properly, seconds apart,” Moriarty said and again opened his arms to indicate the entire kitchen. He spun around and smirked. “You would have had just enough time to know what was happening and that there would be no chance to survive.”

Clutching his mug, Mycroft sat down at the kitchen table, exhaled slowly, and sipped his tea. Everything that the man had just said was frighteningly plausible considering Moriarty’s level of expertise with explosives. The more he thought about it, the more his breathing started to accelerate at the thought of what could have happened. Setting his mug down on the table, he buried his face in his hands. He heard Moriarty pull up a chair next to him and then the man caressed one of his hands tenderly. “Mycroft?”

“This is a bit disconcerting,” Mycroft whispered and then let James take his hand. He felt his knuckles being kissed and that grounded him. It also felt nice. How odd.

“Obviously, I didn’t, and I’m glad that I didn’t. I too understand the dynamics between you and Sherlock much more now, specifically how you see others in relation to him,” Moriarty said and popped another truffle in Mycroft’s mouth. “You may have to make me more truffles. I’m giving you entirely too many.”

“I suppose.” Mycroft chuckled but then forced himself to focus on the serious matter at hand. “Why didn’t you… at the time? There was nothing stopping you.”

“You,” Moriarty answered. “And your house.” He smiled, ate the last remaining truffle, and waved the empty plate at Mycroft expectantly. Mycroft took the plate and set it aside. “During interrogation, despite all of it, you fascinated me, every interesting prim, proper, reserved little aspect of you down to how you fold your pocket square.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “I fold them-”

“In a specific way each day of the week,” James said smugly. Mycroft gasped. How could Moriarty have noticed that? James continued, “Then I came here. I was astounded. The precision of everything. The propriety of it all. A place for everything and everything in its place.”

“Orderliness is important,” Mycroft noted since he was at a loss for what else to say. This usually brought him ridicule from others.

“But more than that,” Jim continued. “Everything is _cherished_. Each item is important, needed, or appreciated and it’s where it needs to be. On top of all that, it’s aesthetically pleasing.”

Mycroft’s jaw fell open for an instant before he clamped it shut. “At best, most people chuckle at my tendencies and shake their heads with only minimal dismay.”

“I was utterly fascinated,” James explained. “I didn’t have anything growing up. Barely any food, clothes in tatters, shoes with holes that didn’t fit, practically nothing until I learned how to steal without getting caught.” Mycroft sighed. He’d come to suspect as much. 

“And even though I have wealth now,” Moriarty said. “None of it matters the way yours does. I have to be prepared to abandon it at a moment’s notice. I have to be prepared to vanish without a trace. I can’t place any attachment or value to anything, otherwise it will lead to disappointment, like so many times before. And that’s like having... _nothing_. Like before.”

“I suppose it is,” Mycroft agreed. He could easily understand how the material wealth hadn’t given Moriarty what he really wanted, meaning, and how his lifestyle continued to prevent it. 

“Here, in your house, I saw value placed in everything, value in every little detail. I saw how you cherish everything,” James continued. “And despite your wealth and power, and the fact that you have everything and can make people vanish simply by snapping your fingers, you don’t have excess; you don’t have anything ridiculous; and you’re firmly grounded in yourself.” 

Mycroft sighed as he felt a warmth suffusing him. James was absolutely correct. “I suppose that’s the nicest way that anyone has ever described my desire for organization,” he said and smiled. It was amazing to see his life from someone else’s eyes, to not be judged negatively for it, and to have someone appreciate and _value_ , as James had said so many times what he did.

“That’s what I saw, coming here,” James said. “And there was no way that I could destroy it, or you.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He felt overwhelmed by the emotions and, perhaps, the sadness and loneliness that he felt in Moriarty’s life that was now overwhelmingly clear. “But why did you steal my pen?” he again blurted out while realizing how potentially rude that was considering everything that James had just said.

James smiled. “I wanted to take a little bit of that with me,” he said. His eyes focused sharply on Mycroft. “I couldn’t have Sherlock and this seemed heaven. I wanted to keep a little of it since I’d already decided not to kill you and destroy this.” Mycroft nodded. “Your pen seemed perfect. I didn’t think it horribly important.”

Mycroft gasped at hearing that. _His pen, unimportant_?! “My pen is one of the most important things I own,” he stammered.

“I thought you’d notice something, like say, a painting or one of your awards and diplomas or one of your valuable _objets d'art_. It was in the back of a desk drawer. I didn’t think it’s absence would be significant if it were even noticed,” Moriarty said evenly.

“It was still...” Mycroft grumbled but couldn’t finish his sentence properly without tripping over his words. _His pen was important_!

“And it was just after interrogation,” James noted coldly. “Water-boarding, electricity, beatings, suffocation, burns, sensory deprivation, plus the rest of it.” Mycroft cringed at each word. “Not killing you and only stealing a pen from the back of a desk drawer hardly compares to what _you_ did to me.”

Mycroft had nothing to counter that. “My pen is one of the most important things I own,” he repeated and hated how weak and pathetic he sounded. “And you tormented me relentlessly afterward.”

“I repeat the list of things that you did to me.”

“I… understand.” Mycroft didn’t know what to say. What Moriarty said put things in a very logical perspective and he could certainly understand how James had felt after what he’d done. His reasoning and emotional attachment to his pen fell short and he couldn’t help but wonder why the man hadn’t killed him, destroyed his pen, and why return it with gifts and show him kindness?

“I realized fairly quickly,” Jim said and took a sip of tea. “And it gave me great satisfaction to know that I was, in small ways, tormenting you. Returning the favor so to speak. Because in no universe does a postcard equal a shot of electricity.” 

“Of course…” Mycroft looked away. Even after hearing that James hadn’t specifically targeted the pen and even if there was such an incredibly stark contrast with what he’d done to Moriarty, the despair that he’d felt was still real. 

James continued, “Only after New Orleans did I truly realize that the pen meant a lot to you and I do understand cherishing a pen. Although I was still having fun, I started to feel bad and made the decision to return it.”

“You have your Montegrappa,” Mycroft said somewhat sharply and then regretted it. He understood so much more now and regretted so many of his actions. He was also enjoying his time with the other man more than he cared to admit and didn’t want to give James reason to leave. “They do make a cute couple but-”

James smiled and pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. “Tell me why it’s so important,” he asked softly. Mycroft shook his head. No one really knew the significance of the pen and no one could possibly understand. “Tell me,” James urged and gently squeezed Mycroft’s hand which he belatedly realized the man was still holding. “Help me understand fully. I won’t judge you.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “It’s more than just a pen.”

“Obviously.”

“Mummy gave it to me as a way of thanking me,” Mycroft whispered. It felt as though he would be struck by lightning or a chasm would open underneath him as he spoke. He stopped.

“For…”

“For pulling Sherlock out of a drug den, half dead,” Mycroft said. “He went into cardiac arrest a few minutes afterward.” Mycroft shuddered at the memory. “One of my guards and I had to do CPR until the ambulance arrived. I thought every breath that I gave him would be the last and that I wasn’t good enough. I would surely fail him one last time and lose him forever.” He closed his eyes and felt James rubbing his fingers.

“That must have been horrific,” James said. 

“It was,” Mycroft agreed. “And then feeling so helpless as the ambulance personnel took over and whisked him to A&E.” Mycroft opened his eyes and stared at the wall. “Then the worry that he’d done lasting damage followed by his anger and rehab and relapses.”

“And your family gave you a pen,” Moriarty said flatly. 

“Yes,” Mycroft answered although for the first time in his life, it somehow felt surreal. “It was a token of their, mostly Mummy’s, appreciation.”

Moriarty kissed his knuckles slowly again. “May I ask you a question?” Mycroft nodded. “It seems to me that you raised Sherlock. What were your parents doing?”

That question helped ground Mycroft. “Father was in the foreign service and Mummy had commitments,” he explained. “They did the best they could but they really should not have had children. Mummy tried but she simply wasn’t cut out for it.”

“And your father was too busy with his mistresses and jet-setting across the world,” Moriarty said. Mycroft gasped. “He didn’t bother to cover his tracks well if at all.”

“He also enjoyed his reputation,” Mycroft said. “A wife and children were both a hindrance and a social obligation.”

“So… you raised little Sherlock, with occasional help from your mother,” James surmised. Mycroft nodded. James continued, “And didn’t have much of one yourself.”

“A childhood is greatly overrated,” Mycroft said as firmly as he could manage. Yet again, James Moriarty seemed to make a lot of his arguments seem hollow.


	13. The Case of the Missing Montegrappa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim stays for dinner and dessert. Pens are discussed and Jim gets his hands on Mycroft's Mont Blanc again.

**The Case of the Missing Montegrappa**

They had dinner from one of Mycroft’s favorite restaurants delivered: cream of champignon soup, salad niçoise with microgreens, steak au poivre, rosemary and garlic roasted potatoes, mixed vegetable à la crème, grilled asparagus, and apple crisp. Mycroft had explained his recent work with the North American Bluebird Society and then described his upcoming presentation at the Scottish Owl Centre. He was surprised that James actually seemed interested and made note of the date.

Just before dessert however, James pointed at him with the small fork. “You’re wrong, you know,” he said.

“Pardon.”

“A childhood is not overrated.”

Mycroft smiled wanly. Thinking about that made him feel uncomfortable and the apple crisp beckoned him enticingly from the oven. “We turned out all right.”

“We’re still alive, so by some version of all right, yes,” James said. “But you bent over backwards to insure that Sherlock had a good one.” Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly. How had the man known that? “You took over the parenting of little Sherly when you deemed your parents were being rather ineffectual.”

Mycroft frowned. “You may be somewhat correct.”

James took his hand. “Don’t forget the apple crisp,” he faux whispered and then scrunched up his nose adorably. “I’m _craving_ apple.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said flatly. “Tea?”

“Would be lovely.”

“You are a nuisance,” Mycroft grumbled as he got up to get the dessert and set the kettle to boil. “A certified one at that.”

“Thank you,” James replied agreeably and then continued loudly. “You gave up your childhood to raise Sherly.” 

“Nonsense.”

James rose and followed Mycroft to the kitchen. “You were never taught by example or otherwise how to do so. You were, how shall I put it, paired? Paired, yes, paired with a sibling who is so completely your opposite as far as a lot of things go, it was a damn near impossible job.”

“Sherlock was a bit of a challenge, yes,” Mycroft agreed while thinking back to all the aggravations and near disasters that were coupled with a few moments of joy. Those moments always warmed his heart.

“It seems to me,” James continued. “That no one has acknowledged, or even noticed, everything that you did, everything that you went through, and, perhaps, everything that you gave up in order to achieve this.” 

Mycroft didn’t quite know what to say. Instead, he picked up the dessert plates and brought them to the dining room. James poured the water so Mycroft simply sat down. Even though he knew he was being a poor host, he wanted a minute of respite to get himself together. James seemed to be managing competently. Mycroft pursed his lips and made a mental note to have Sherlock, and only Sherlock, go over his security system.

After bringing everything needed, James sat down and took Mycroft’s hand in his. Mycroft had to admit it fit there perfectly. And comfortably. “That makes me sad,” James continued. “You are... amazing.”

“I’ve only wanted the best for Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered and it felt as though he was baring his soul open for the world to see. And judge. Except that James didn’t seem to be judging him.

“And he _is_ amazing,” Jim agreed. “But also aggravating and reckless and rather unaware of others around him.”

“True.”

“So, let me guess,” James half-drawled. “Your pen… the lovely Mont Blanc, was quite possibly the only acknowledgment you _ever_ received from your family for everything that you’ve done for Sherly.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s a reminder that I managed to keep him alive just a bit longer,” he said sadly and hoped that James would change the topic of conversation.

Moriarty smiled. No such luck. “In a way it’s a symbol of Sherlock’s life.”

Damn him. That was, in a way, correct. “Yes.”

“And it’s symbolic of your care and nurturing of him.”

“I suppose.” How does he do that? Hit the bullseye with every shot?

“As well as an external acknowledgment of you and your work by the people who should have been doing that job.”

He’s bloody good at this. “Perhaps.”

Moriarty took a bite of his dessert and chewed slowly before pouring the tea. “Not only is it a validation of your life and everything you’ve tried to do for Sherlock but, to me, it seems that it’s become a representation of Sherlock.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply but then took a deep breath to calm his emotions. “You may be right,” he whispered.

“That explains your reaction to my taking the pen,” James said gently. “I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t my intention at all.”

“Wouldn’t you feel similarly and want to destroy anyone who so much as touched your pen?” Mycroft asked trying to redirect slightly. 

Moriarty smiled. “Yes and no,” he said. “You’re changing the subject.” Mycroft smirked.

“I’ll let you do that,” James said and kissed the back of his hand. “As long as you know that I know the truth, and appreciate everything that you’ve done in your life. I’m impressed. You seemed so stodgy. I feel that you’re under-appreciated and misunderstood.” Mycroft looked away. “As long as we’re clear,” James continued and then kissed Mycroft’s hand again. “We can proceed to talking about how much _more_ amazing _I_ am.”

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes before eating a piece of his crisp. The pause gave him an opening to change the subject. “I looked up Montegrappas and they are rather well made. Yours is a custom piece.” Pens were much safer to talk about. James nodded but didn’t reply. 

Mycroft did want to see his pen’s “paramour” but he wasn’t quite sure it would be courteous to ask. The conversation seemed to stall and Mycroft didn’t want the man bored. He returned to the previous topic because he knew James that could keep up. “How did you piece all of that together?”

“The most important part of my consulting is to see through the chaff and determine what the _actual_ problem is,” James replied and shot him a pleased grin. “It makes coming up with an optimal solution that much easier.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft stated, thinking of the situations that he dealt with at work. “And even then they don’t get it.”

“Idiots,” Moriarty murmured smugly. “Dangling participles.”

“All of them.”

“Indeed.” James took another bite and sighed. 

Mycroft noted that the man ate quickly, probably a symptom of his childhood poverty. “Shall I heat up another piece?” he suggested and felt his heart warm at the glee that appeared over Moriarty’s face. James smiled and Mycroft found it charming. He didn’t wait for a reply and quickly put two more slices in the oven.

They ate a few bites in silence and then Mycroft remembered the ink drawings. And his desire to see Moriarty’s pen. “Where did you learn to draw so well?”

“Those doodles?” James mumbled around a bite of crisp.

“I wouldn’t call them _doodles_ ,” Mycroft said. “They’re darling and delightful and show real talent.”

“As a child, I dreamed of being an artist,” James said. “As well as a famous scientist, astronaut, explorer, among other things.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Pirate?”

“Oddly enough, not that exactly,” James said, laughing. “Sea captain chasing after the great Kraken.”

“Or a great white whale?”

“That’s been done already,” Moriarty retorted playfully. “But there was no way to go to art school and art supplies are difficult to steal and keep hidden.”

“I can see that,” Mycroft agreed although he was saddened that a young James Moriarty had obviously considered doing that and been unable.

“So, I stole pens and doodled on everything I could find,” James said. 

“A recurring habit I see.”

“Then as I got older, I tried to sneak into drawing classes but I was usually thrown out. I still doodled on everything and once I settled into the consulting business, the amount of doodles on my notes usually corresponded with the level of idiocy and inanity of the client.”

“Ah, the joys of dealing with goldfish,” Mycroft said, sighing conspiratorially. “I usually make lists in similar situations which, working in the government, you can imagine happens altogether too frequently.” James chuckled and Mycroft found it endearing to think that while their careers were sometimes at opposite ends of the spectrum, frequently there were parallels and similarities.

“Will you draw something for me?” Mycroft asked. He wanted to see James drawing and the thought of the criminal mastermind in his dining room, drawing something for him somehow tickled his fancy. Plus he wanted to see the Montegrappa.

“Of course!” James exclaimed and rose.

“I’ll clear the dishes and get some more tea brewing,” Mycroft said primly. “You draw.”

“I’ll draw you something special,” James said, rising and walking towards Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft frowned as he picked up the dessert plates. “Shall I get you some paper?”

“Don’t worry, I know where everything is!” James replied cheerily. 

Cheeky bastard. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and went to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and set it to boil and then cleared the rest of the dirty dishes. After pouring the water into the teapot, he brought the tea tray and the second helping of dessert back to the dining room and found James sitting at the table, with _his pen_ , his fine writing paper, and his emergency stash of iced ginger biscuits. “I see,” he said crisply, glaring at Moriarty. “Should I be concerned that you seem to live here as much as I do?” he asked grumpily.

“Nooooooo…” James drawled. “It should reassure you.”

“Why are you using _my_ pen and not using _your_ pen?” Mycroft asked.

“I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you,” James teased. Mycroft frowned but then sat down and watched as James silently drew the most beautiful ink drawing of a goldfish with flowing fins. 

“Thank you for dinner,” James said as he finished the goldfish and started adding some decorative animated sea kelp. “It was lovely.” He then looked deeply into Mycroft’s eyes. “And yes… I’m spending the night.”


	14. Of Breakfast and Pens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and James have a pleasant _morning after_ and come to an agreement before James has to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been a while since I updated. I got sidetracked by the holiday Jim/Mycroft story that should only have been a few chapters but then it took on a life of its own. One more short epilogue after this chapter.

**Of Breakfast and Pens**

The first thing Mycroft felt as he awoke was the warm body that he was lying up against and half curled around. James. He could feel the rise and fall of the man’s chest beneath his arm. It was tranquil compared to the previous night of passionate lovemaking. Twenty minutes with Moriarty had been more rewarding than his entire three and a half year relationship with Arthur. James had also not complained when he’d changed the sheets afterward. Mycroft felt soothed and at peace.

Sighing softly, Mycroft opened his eyes and then squinted. Even with the curtains drawn, enough bright light came in through the cracks to make it momentarily uncomfortable. He shifted slightly so that his vision was filled with James. Tousled hair. Pale smooth skin. Red lips that had kissed every inch of Mycroft’s body and every thought out of his mind. His eyes focused on something on Jim’s chest, which he didn’t remember from interrogation. New scar, near his heart. What?

He slowly moved his arm so that his fingers could trace it while his mind reviewed all the scars he’d noted during interrogation. Definitely new and potentially lethal. He caressed it and wished that his fingers could make it evaporate. Even though they could still classify each other as enemies, the thought of James dying brought only emptiness.

“Vegas,” Jim murmured, opening his eyes and smiling at Mycroft.

That one word caused guilt to wash over Mycroft. What had happened in Las Vegas had been his fault. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out before even thinking about it.

“Whyyyyy?” Jim turned to face Mycroft and pulled their bodies close.

“I gave that order,” Mycroft said and caressed Jim’s side. The feel of Jim’s skin beneath his hand comforted him. “I didn’t think it through but I did give the order.”

“You _overreacted_ because you wanted your pen back,” Jim said. “I don’t blame you for the overreaction now that I understand it. I know what the pen means to you and there’s no denying what I am. I don’t blame you for calling a hit on a known international criminal.”

“But that part was irrelevant at the time,” Mycroft disagreed. He remembered every thought and feeling as he’d called the American officials and he despised all of it. “It was about the pen. I thought you would eventually destroy it and send me little pieces just like you would eventually destroy Sherlock and leave me with nothing. Every day I imagined something worse. Every note I received, I expected disaster until I’d see that it had survived another day in your care.”

James didn’t say anything and instead kissed him slowly. Mycroft relaxed into the embrace and felt his anxiety start to ease. “I would never have destroyed your pen or Sherlock,” Jim said. “As I said last night, as soon as I realized that the pen meant more to you than just a nice pen, I decided to return it. I was just a teensy bit delayed.”

“And that’s my fault though,” Mycroft said, wondering what had delayed James. “The order, I… I should never have…”

“Well, wallow in guilt if you want then,” James said playfully. “And make it up to me in truffles. But I don’t blame you, Mister Holmes. If I had died, I suppose I might have felt differently about the whole situation, but I didn’t. I don’t blame you, it’s finished as far as I’m concerned, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Mycroft repeated tentatively and wondered what would come next. 

“And we still need to talk about the main reason why I came here,” Jim said, blatantly changing the subject.

“Didn’t we talk about everything and all its cousins last night?” Mycroft said lightly.

“I don’t think we discussed your drunk texting meeee-eeeee!” Jim said with his sing-song voice. “While I found it funny and sort of sweet, the fact that you did it concerns me since we’re not really text buddies and the amount of alcohol needed to overcome your common sense for all of those texts is concerning.”

“I know,” Mycroft said softly, feeling ashamed, and looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve put it away. Before, it was just a pleasant part of the routine and then with things happening, Sherlock getting hurt, I would have one more, then another, just to relax and be able to function or sleep, just to cope. I hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten.”

“May I see what you did with the alcohol later?” Jim asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft felt himself relax more. James was not judging him.

“I think you need a better way to de-stress.”

“I do but I’ve found that I’m not drawn to things like yoga or meditation,” Mycroft said. “I tend to ruminate on the problem instead of relaxing and end up more tense than when I started.”

“Sex.”

“Sex?”

“Mad sex.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “You feel that I need more sex to relax?”

“Sex, and a few other things, like tea and chocolate, fix everything.”

“My truffles should work then?”

“Truffles are very difficult to make,” Jim noted seriously. “You have to share them with someone who appreciates them appropriately for them to relieve stress.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I see where this is going. I make you truffles, you appreciate them…”

“We fuck like minxes and you feel better,” Jim finished.

“It might interfere with our work schedules,” Mycroft said.

“We’ll find ways to make it work,” Jim said softly. 

Mycroft pulled him even closer. Something that he didn’t really understand had happened. After relating pretty much his entire life’s story to James, he hadn’t been rejected or mocked. He’d found understanding, acceptance and even admiration. They’d made love and Mycroft felt strangely whole and grounded instead of empty. “Shall we take a shower and maybe find something to eat?” he asked, realizing that he was also changing the subject. “It is fairly late.”

“A shower sounds delicious,” Jim said, leering at Mycroft. “Then I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“You cook?” That was a surprise. He hadn’t expected Moriarty to do much in the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have thought you cooked.”

“I do,” James replied. “I usually don’t bother because cooking for one person seems too much effort. When I have company though, look out.”

“Culinary masterpieces galore?”

“Oh, yes!” Jim wiggled free of Mycroft’s embrace and sat up. “I’m going to investigate what I have to work with and then we’ll have that shower,” he said. He stretched and stood up.

Distracted by the sight, Mycroft couldn’t help but stare for a moment before he realized that James was about to walk to the kitchen _naked_. “There’s an extra bathrobe in the closet,” he mumbled quickly. “The pale blue one.” James widened his eyes and Mycroft felt his cheeks pinken. “I only use it when mine is in the wash.”

“No rotating door lovers for you?” Jim teased as he retrieved the bathrobe.

“Humph,” Mycroft grumbled while sitting up. “I’ll get the water temperature in the shower perfect.” Watching Jim walk to the kitchen, Mycroft smiled. It felt as though all the blame and guilt he usually held close had melted. Events hadn’t changed but he was no longer suffocating underneath them. It was a nice feeling. He put on his bathrobe and turned on the shower to the exact position he knew would deliver the perfect water temperature.

“Mycroft!” the shout from the kitchen jarred him from his contented state. “Mycroft Holmes! Come here _now_!!”

Tightening the bathrobe sash, Mycroft walked toward the kitchen and found James, with the refrigerator door open, staring at him with bewilderment. He realized the problem and pointed to the freezer. “Breakfast is in the freezer,” he said primly.

James slowly closed the refrigerator door and opened the freezer. “What the fuck?” he said staring at the assortment of frozen breakfast sandwiches.

“Plenty of options,” Mycroft said. “There should be something in there that you like.”

“You have no ingredients.”

“I don’t cook.”

Jim seemed aghast at that notion. “You make truffles.”

“And cocktails,” Mycroft said. “Truffles and cocktails. I have those ingredients.”

“I see,” Jim said, shaking his head. “I’m going to have breakfast _ingredients_ delivered while we shower and then I’m going to cook you something marvelous.”

~~

The shower was long and luxurious and required more washing off than Mycroft had expected. He didn’t care. When they finished, James found several texts on his phone, and a black sedan with tinted windows was parked outside. Humming cheerfully, James walked out to the car and returned with a bag of groceries along with the news that the car would be waiting there until they were done because James had to go to the airport that afternoon. Mycroft was not pleased to hear that.

He quietly set the dining room table properly and thought about everything that had happened since the previous day. So much had been said. His childhood, his family, Sherlock, him, his pen, James, Las Vegas. Mycroft started to mentally organize and integrate it all.

Meanwhile James found pots and pans that Mummy had stocked his kitchen with and he’d never touched, except to run them through the dishwasher every six months to make sure they weren’t dirty or dusty. From the dining room, Mycroft looked on with dismay. It seemed that James could, in fact, use _all_ the pots and pans for cooking one meal. 

Jim winked at him and whispered loudly, “It’s going to be fantastic and I will fit everything in the dishwasher afterward.” Mycroft didn’t think that was a good idea unless they rinsed everything first. He distracted himself by making a pot of tea.

Somehow, in just over thirty minutes, James put breakfast on the table. It looked better and healthier than anything any of his cafes provided. Ham and cheese omelets, sausage patties, steamed broccoli, fresh tomatoes with basil, and fried potatoes. They both sat down and started eating.

When they had almost finished, Mycroft asked something that had been bothering him since earlier. “You were delayed because of your injury?” he asked quietly.

Jim nodded. “I was in the hospital for a while and then rehab.”

Mycroft felt guilty once more. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t start with that again,” Jim chided him gently. “We’ve discussed it and it’s settled. You can owe me some more truffles.”

“I’ll make you truffles whenever you want,” Mycroft said and then chuckled at the pleased expression that appeared on Jim’s face. “I am glad that the FBI didn’t send their best that day and you survived.”

“They did,” James said. “I just got lucky several times over.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“I suppose for the two of us, it's a decent breakfast conversation,” Jim noted. “And I have your pen to thank for some of that luck.”

“I’m not sure I want to know about _those_ details,” Mycroft said hesitantly.

“Well, the plan was to use your pen to sign some naughty agreements that you would definitely _not_ have approved of,” Jim said.

“I may have to reduce your allotment of truffles for that,” Mycroft grumbled.

“No!”

“Go on.”

“I had sent two of my people back to the room with your pen,” Jim said. “While I keep a pen with me at all times, I always made sure that yours was safe and out of potential harm.”

“I appreciate that. More truffles for you then.”

Jim smiled. “I don’t usually drink all that much so the Eiffel Tower drink affected me more than I realized,” he continued. “When the lookout texted a warning, I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have and I didn’t react quickly enough. We were completely out-positioned and outnumbered.” Mycroft cringed. “The first shots dropped me.” Mycroft closed his eyes. “But the two that I’d sent back to the room with your pen were close enough that they were able to take out the FBI team from behind and get us to medical.”

“You had medical in Las Vegas?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

“Anybody who’s anybody has medical in Vegas,” Jim said and smirked. “They stabilized me and the others who were hurt to the point where we could evacuate safely. That was followed by a few more fairly small surgeries, then the whole rehab process, and here I am.” 

Mycroft nodded. “Are you still under restrictions?”

“Just the ‘if it hurts, don’t do it’ restrictions,” Jim said.

“Last night didn’t…”

“Last night was glorious.”

“That’s good,” Mycroft said. “But I still don’t think that they sent their best shooters and for that I’m glad.”

James shook his head. “It was a perfect shot,” he said. “But I carry my pen here.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “It deflected the shot just enough to miss anything important.” He sighed. “I still would have died if I hadn’t gotten to medical as fast as I did but it bought me enough time to do so.”

“The Montegrappa saved you.”

“Yes...”

Mycroft heard hints of sadness in the reply and understanding dawned on him. “You lost your pen.” James nodded and guilt overwhelmed Mycroft. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jim said. “I loved the pen and she meant a lot to me but, as I said last night, I’m not attached to material things. They vanish eventually.”

“But your beautiful pen…”

“Saved my life,” Jim summarized. “And I’m happy that she did. End of story.”

Mycroft did not feel better. “May I ask what she meant to you?”

“When I first got started, it was a struggle to claw my way to the top,” Jim said. “It seemed that I never had enough money. Growing up poor, I probably have a slightly skewed perception of how much money I have and what to do with it. But finally, after a big project, I had paid everyone, paid off everything that needed paying, bought a second residence, had a million pounds stashed in several accounts, and still had money leftover. At that point I finally convinced myself that I’d made it and I bought the pen to celebrate.”

“That’s important,” Mycroft said hesitantly. He felt horrible knowing what the pen had meant to James. “I don’t approve of your means but it represented your accomplishments.”

“It did but it was more of a reminder,” James said, taking Mycroft’s hand in his. “Nothing changed when she passed away.” He kissed Mycroft’s knuckles. “Truffles make everything better.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you. I will make you as many as you want. I’ll even develop a new truffle just for you.”

“Ooooooooooo… you’re asking for trouble...”

“I can handle that sort of trouble easily.”

Jim laughed but then looked at his watch. “I need to go shortly,” he said. “Let me help you put everything in the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen.”

Those words left Mycroft cold. He found that he didn’t want James to leave. He didn’t want to let the man go. “Must you?” he blurted out.

“I have to be in the Netherlands tomorrow,” James said. “Nothing that involves British interests but it’s a nice deal and I’ve been away too long.”

Mycroft frowned. “Well, they haven’t missed you so you really don’t _have_ to go,” he said. “Plus, your line of work is dangerous. You’ve had enough fun and excitement for this lifetime. I suggest retiring.”

“You, of all people, should understand commitment to work,” James countered. “I’ll be back for truffles. Promise. Now let’s clean up.”

While James worked at a brisk pace, Mycroft found himself moving slowly, trying to come up with something to keep James there or to make a stronger connection between them. Just as they finished, he had an idea. “Please sit for a moment,” he said. “I have something for you.”

“I will be put out if you’re having me arrested, Mycroft Holmes,” James said. They moved to the dining room and he sat down. “Plus, nothing I do has anything to do with Britain anymo-ore!” Mycroft went to his office. “You can’t arrest me,” James said loudly after him.

Mycroft smiled at those words and retrieved a rectangular box from his desk. “It’s a small gift,” he said, returning to the dining room and placing the box in front of James.

Jim’s eyes widened. “It’s a pen!” he exclaimed.

“It’s the interloper pen,” Mycroft stated. James looked at him questioningly. “Mummy thought that finding me a replacement pen would cure me of my misery when my pen was gone.”

“She thought she could _replace_ your Sherlock pen?” James seemed aghast.

“I was horrified and that pen has lived in the recesses of my desk ever since,” Mycroft said. Jim snickered. “Then I realized that I received my pen for saving Sherlock and you saved Sherlock from Magnussen. Everyone who saves Sherlock gets a pen.”

“So, now, this is _my_ Sherlock pen?”

“Yes.”

Jim smiled broadly while opening the pen box. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.” He looked at it pensively. “It’s really not... you.”

“I know. I have no idea what Mummy was thinking. It’s bright and has bubbles and swirls.”

“I love it, thank you,” Jim said, rising to his feet.

“Write to me when you’re away?” Mycroft asked and pulled him into his arms. “And send me drawings?”

“I will.” James kissed Mycroft tenderly and then rested his head on Mycroft’s chest. “We can be pen pals.”


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.  
> (Fountain pens are awesome!)  
> ❤ Happy Valentines Day ❤

**Epilogue**

Later that day after staring dismally at the ingredients in his refrigerator and wondering what he was going to do with them all, Mycroft re-alphabetized his supply of teas while trying not to think too much on James Moriarty.

It seemed that he had gained a new perspective on his existence and he planned on implementing some changes. He ordered Korean takeaway for dinner and contemplated which aspect of his life he was going to review first. As soon as his order arrived, his phone beeped with the tone that he now adored which indicated a text from James.

Pre-flight Shirley Temple! -the borghese pen

It was followed by a picture of the pen leaning against a glass containing the drink garnished with four cherries. “James truly has a sweet tooth,” he murmured. Two more texts followed.

I think he’s trying to tell me something... -the borghese pen

He ate all the cherries, -the borghese pen

Mycroft chuckled and tried to come up with something witty with which to reply. Failing that, he took a photo of his pen with a box of the takeaway and changed his signature on texts.

Dinner! -the pen

You left ingredients in my refrigerator. -the pen

Be safe. -the pen

He received no reply and assumed that James was boarding or had already shut down his phone. Sighing, he decided to address his work schedule while trying _not_ to think too much on James Moriarty. There would be no more extra hours on a regular basis. He needed time for himself. 

Mycroft ended up spending several hours revising his schedule and delegating responsibilities to others in his department. For the most part, he found that there were plenty of qualified people. He had previously worried that work wouldn’t be done to his specifications. From that point on, problems would be dealt with _post factum_ on an as needed basis and he wasn’t going to fret. Perhaps he’d assign problems to Sherlock. With his sharp mind and wit, his brother relished taking on goldfish.

Mycroft lost track of time and was startled when his doorbell rang at close to midnight. Rising, he frowned. Who was visiting him at this time of night? He then heard the alarm system being turned off. Sherlock. Sigh. His brother was going to have to be more respectful of his boundaries though.

He walked into the entryway just as the door opened to reveal not Sherlock but James. All of Mycroft’s annoyance melted away and his heart warmed. Smiling pointedly, he asked, “I thought you needed to be in the Netherlands?”

“I canceled,” James said, walking forward. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft and they kissed. Languidly. Mycroft wanted it to never end but eventually they pulled apart. James smiled somewhat smugly. “I did some thinking on the way to the airport.”

“That could be hazardous,” Mycroft said. “Tell me...”

“Another way to look at things is that I get a new pen for each new phase of my life. My old pen died, perhaps with my old life, and now I have a new pen.”

“New pen, new life.”

“It’s my Sherlock pen,” Jim said. “But also my new life pen. Perhaps I’m done being a consulting criminal. I have no idea what the next phase will be but it won’t be _that_ anymore.”

“That’s probably safer, all things considered,” Mycroft noted. “Maybe we can find out together?”

“I’d like that,” James said and smiled sweetly. It was an expression that Mycroft found odd but also charming. “I’d like that a lot,” he continued. “Together…”

Mycroft kissed James tenderly. “And perhaps I can help _you_ find the meaning and value in your life that you couldn’t find previously.”

 

 _The End_.


End file.
